D-Day - Prussia Love Story
by Frau Bielschmidt
Summary: 1944, the height of WWII and the beginning of the Allied push into continental Europe. Major Carter, Scourge of Salerno and aide to Alfred F. Jones, is in the middle of the fray when unforeseen circumstances conspire to tear down everything he stands for. (Not yaoi)
1. Exchanging Pleasantries

**Hey there everybody, a note before we begin: This is a more realistic telling of history and wartime, so expect lots of killing and gore and what not. Know that this is my first time using the editor on Fanfiction and I'm still getting used to it so bear with me. Also, this venture will be novel-length by the time it's finished, so you've got a lot to look forward to haha. Anyway, I hope you like it, leave a review, I'd love to hear your opinions! Enjoy!**

Chapter I: Exchanging Pleasantries

 **May 15** **th** **, 1944 – Weymouth, England**

The steady pitter-patter of rain began the day as it would any other. Through the hazy trees the first peach-creams and oranges stained the leaves, reaching tentatively across the English horizon only to be smothered by heavy clouds. There were hardly any birds in the sky, such was the time; few people were awake and if so, even fewer were sound of mind. Major Randall Carter, thirty-one years old but looking far younger, observed the morning from his office window with a wintry indifference. He crossed his arms, uncrossed them again, and, with a sigh, continued his vigil.

"They're late." He said when another man joined him. Lieutenant James Lane squinted and looked outward, as his superior did, into the dreary weather.

"Seems like it."

Carter harrumphed, and, scratching the back of his cropped brown head, descended into an easy silence. The only difference was in his eyes: pensive and narrowed slightly. Lane looked out again. A line of headlights began to rumble and splash their way through the trees and into camp, each carrying a small portion of the invasion force they'd be sending to France in a month. Every one of them was likely to be a draftee - young and fresh off American soil for the first time in their little lives - and Lane, along with his other seasoned counterparts, had as much duty to get them ready as Major Carter. The man would have enough to do anyway, breaking in the new company.

"Let's go, Lane. No sense in making them wait." Carter set off into the rain, ready to begin preparation for Operation Overlord.

"Gentlemen, I am Major Randall Carter, your new company commander," With Lane at his side, he addressed the line of new recruits with a voice like tempered steel, "I request only your respect and obedience. Follow my lead, do exactly as I say and maybe you'll go home alive. If that is too much then, please, give me your names so I may begin writing those letters of condolence." His affect was hard and lordly; certainly not something they were used to hearing. Upper-crust New Yorker. Major Carter was a man of privilege.

As if sensing their observation he halted, surveyed them with cold eyes, and amended his presence.

"We're fixing to cross the Channel come June, and as part of the main invasion force the job is simple: keep your heads down, your eyes sharp, and cross that beach. You might be thinking that it'll be a cakewalk, but let me tell you that those Krauts are not going down without a fight." He cast an eye over the assembled men, "Well, it's our job to take that fight right out of 'em, and gentlemen? I'll be damned before I see Adolf Hitler get the drop on us."

Lightning flashed, catching fire in the conviction upon Carter's face and the amused smile upon Lane's. He certainly knew how to command an audience. The boys chorused a hearty 'yes sir!'

"Right then," Lane took over when Carter was accosted by another officer sitting inside a great, black hulk of an automobile, "Barracks are over yonder, PT starts in ten. I suggest you get cracking." They made off, anxious to be out of the rain, while Lane lingered, anxious to hear whatever news had rankled Carter's stout mood. The furrow in his brow was not indicative of good tidings.

"Lane, I'm going to need you to keep them in line for a couple of days. I've got to go to London." Lane, noting the irritation in Carter's voice, complied immediately.

"Yes sir, what's it about this time?"

"Higher ups called a meeting." Carter didn't offer any more detail and Lane expected none. He nodded once.

"How long?"

"A day or two, I'm not planning to stay any longer than I need to. These boys need me more than Jones does." Lane coughed a laugh.

"Don't worry Major, they'll be fine." Carter's lip twitched in a sort of smile and then he was gone, walking with long, brisk strides to join General Jones's representative in the car. Lane caught one last glimpse of his drawn features as the driver turned around and bore them away. Whatever was going on, Carter wasn't looking forward to it.

 **London, England**

Carter ignored most of Lieutenant Gillan's prattle on the way to London. He slapped his officers' crush cap against his thigh, readying himself for the oncoming ordeal that characterized a meeting with the Western Allies. General Jones, a man of boundless energy and ceaseless optimism, was as different from Carter as the summer was from the winter. He was America, and Carter was but a man, and yet Jones relied on him like no other, as was made evident by his greeting. No sooner had Carter entered the threshold and made to salute was Jones upon him.

"Carter!" The Major, being a small man, found himself lifted easily from the ground in an iron embrace, "Good to see you!"

"Goddammit Jones! Let me go!" Carter growled, embarrassed by such an ungainly gesture and painfully aware of the eyes upon them. Jones's flagrant disregard for proper decorum was frequently cause for reproach. He dropped his subordinate unceremoniously, tossing his honey blonde head back in jejune enjoyment.

"As upbeat as always, Major," Jones said with laugh, "Glad you could make it."

"And I am glad to be here, I trust this won't take long. The reinforcements arrived this morning."

"Oh no, not long at all. We're finalizing the plan for Overlord." The Americans, including forces led personally by Carter and Jones, would go ashore to face the Germans and their guns, and their minefields, and their mortars. If they succeeded in taking the beach it would mark the changing of the tides; the Germans could only hold out so long Europe, in fact, their deficiencies were already beginning to show. Judgement was far past due.

"Who's all here?"

"Oh, just me, and Arthur, and Mattie." Jones turned away and started toward the meeting room. Carter didn't follow. He watched him with quickly narrowing eyes.

"Jones. Who else?" The young country grinned sheepishly.

"The rest of SHAEF came in around noon." Carter stood stock still, shock and irritation writing themselves across his features. He was very late.

"God bless America," He shot his superior a disparaging look, "You'll be the death of me one day you know that?" Jones failed to hear the hard edge in his voice. He adjusted his glasses and tie and continued on, Carter close behind.

"There you are Alfred, I thought you'd gotten lost." Kirkland said when they entered. The other men, all gathered around a large table upon which lay a detailed map of the English Channel, spared only a glance for the young general and his aide. Carter swallowed and approached behind Jones, as obtrusive as a shadow in the dead of night.

"Have some faith England." Jones returned, far more composed than he had been before.

At this point, everyone in the room was aware of the concept of a Country, and Carter felt himself release a breath when no one commented on their behavior, not even Montgomery who'd been the most averse to allowing these young, often immature men participate in the planning procedure. After the battles in Sicily, most of SHAEF understood the value of putting centuries old, near indestructible beings in the field, and the nay-sayers were quickly over-ruled.

SHAEF's function, to be most direct, was the planning and execution of Allied strategy. Their talking points of late concerned Overlord and the measures it would take to gain a foothold in France, both on the ground and in the air. Today's topic, regarding such plans, was the weather. In place in the Atlantic were a number of observation ships, secretly taking measurements of the coming weather in the English Channel and routing it directly to SHAEF headquarters. The latest bit of intelligence was that there was to be a break in the storms for a single day - the sixth of June - and the Allied high-command was eager to exploit it. All that was left to figure was the logistics of doing so.

"Major?" Carter jumped when Eisenhower himself addressed him, "I understand the new recruits have arrived today?"

"Yes sir, six hundred and fifty fresh out of basic, and more keep pouring in. We're nearly at twenty thousand in Weymouth."

"And you know the new regulations?"

"Yes sir," Carter affirmed, "We're keeping a tight lid on it." Eisenhower nodded and turned to the other countries. Carter put a hand over his thundering heartbeat; it wasn't every day you were addressed personally by the Supreme Commander of the Allied Forces, and it made Carter feel at once very honored and very out of his league. He resumed his unobtrusive vigilance.

"How about you Kirkland?"

"Just fine sir, the chaps are jolly-well ready for action." Kirkland puffed up with self-satisfaction. His natural state, if you asked Randall Carter. It wasn't that England was a bad man, or even a particularly dislikeable one – he was simply very stuffy and proud, traits shared by both his subordinates and his superiors, especially, Carter had come to understand, Montgomery.

The men of the SHAEF were adept and experienced, good leaders with undeniable merit and Montgomery was no different. However, his personality was fickle and his nature petulant. He was a difficult man to work with, although you would never hear that from Randall Carter's lips.

The countries, on the other hand, were a different sort.

It wasn't that they lacked intelligence or experience, but agedness and those qualities were often mutually exclusive, and America, England, and Canada looked no different from the fresh-faced greenies that Carter dealt with every day in the marshalling camps. Subsequently, they were targets of much doubt and derision. Carter had attended enough SHAEF conferences to know that their opinions were often undermined by men who thought themselves more qualified. Carter caught himself rolling his eyes at the high-commands' ever-present myopia but quickly corrected himself, he'd been spared their scorn but he didn't think for a second that it would last if he made an ass of himself.

Across the table, Williams smiled in understanding as yet another one of America's proposals was shot down. Carter, on the other hand, felt his patience sour; if they knew just who these young men were they wouldn't be so keen to disregard them. Under the table, his fist clenched; however, the meeting was over long before Carter's patience wore to the point of transparency and he was spared the court marshalling that would have come with speaking his mind.

He took a deep breath as the room cleared, thankful to have made it through another meeting without complication. The three countries gathered to exchange news and pleasantries. Each of them was stationed in a different part of Britain to assist with preparations for the invasion. General Jones and Carter, as his aide, remained with the 16th regiment of the 1st Infantry Division at Weymouth where, in concert with the other divisions, rehearsed the beach landings and amphibious assault. Carter was happy with their progress, and though his duties often took him into the sphere of administration, he was careful to build rapport with the men under his command. Granted, he was not as well liked as his subordinate Lane, but they respected him, and that was all he needed.

"Major, are you sure you want to go back right away?"

"Yes sir, I need to see to my company." To this, Jones rolled his eyes.

"Oh Carter, you don't mean that. Come on, I know a great little pub just down the way!"

"Sir, I-" Carter's indignant protest was ignored. Duty forced him to follow his superior to the place he'd indicated. Gillan, England's 2nd, glanced at him sympathetically, but Carter knew his sympathy was limited only to the skin and so he ignored him.

"See Carter? Isn't this more fun than riding the train?" Jones said, beaming. Carter smiled frostily from his chair at the butt-end of the table. At this point, everyone but Kirkland and Carter were mildly inebriated - soldierly etiquette would not allow for anything further – though that didn't stop them from drawing attention. A group of young officers, handsome, good of spirit, and without female companions was an uncommon sight, one that was quickly being remedied. A couple of young Englishwomen had quickly and gladly been welcomed into the group, both brunettes and both full of smiles and adulation, especially for the Americans.

"I'm General Jones miss, but you can call me Alfred," He smiled his bright Yankee smile, earning one in return, "And over there is my good buddy, Randall." Carter bristled at Jones' distinct omission of his proper title. The other woman, younger than her companion, sidled up to him and Carter, out of politeness, offered his hand and a thin smile.

"Randall Carter, ma'am." He said a might awkwardly, shooting his superior a withering look; Carter was no ladies' man, even if he was a New Yorker.

"Randall," She said in her posh, English voice. Carter guessed: _socialite_ , "May I call you Randy?" The begrudging civility demonstrated previously froze over in a second.

"No." Her smile faltered and Carter felt a deep chill of malicious satisfaction. Jones reminded himself to bring him into pubs more often.

 **May 25th, 1944 – Normandy, France**

Germany stared at the field report with abject disbelief.

"Is this all the mobile divisions we can muster?" He said.

"This is all the mobile divisions that we have been provisioned." Rommel answered, with no lack of spite.

"Well that won't do, we must have more! Surely the Führer understands our position! We cannot fend off an Allied attack with the _Ostruppen_ and _Volksdeutsche_! They are not prepared!" Rommel frowned and tented his fingers.

"If the Führer understands, then he does nothing. He cares little for our predicament."

"Rommel, you must be cautious with such things." Rundstedt admonished, looking about him as he did so as if expecting Gestapo men come melting out of the woodwork. They must be very careful about their conversations. Almost anything, if said improperly, could be mistaken for slander or sedition.

" _Ach,_ but they are true nonetheless!" Rommel rebutted fiercely, "I will go to him soon, and I will not take no for an answer. We must have more men."

"Even if we do have more men, the Atlantic Wall is not yet finished. It will not stand against a bombardment." Germany spoke evenly in order to diffuse the tension. It was no mystery why Rundstedt and Rommel disagreed so heartily. Rommel believed that the Allies would attack along the Normandy coast, whereas Rundstedt had his heart set on the area between the Somme and Calais. The two were justified in their opinions, but because of their disagreement the forces they did have were spread thin. Furthermore, Rundstedt's command was virtually nonexistent at this point, due to various compromises meant to satisfy the other commanders.

On the topic of invasion, however, Germany was more inclined to agree with Rommel – he'd fought at Salerno, the conditions there were very like those in Normandy; therefore it wouldn't be too much of a stretch to assume that the Allies would favor them again – but he refrained from saying so. Administrative cohesion was of the utmost importance at the current time; there were already enough rifts without Germany creating more. Especially with the French Resistance growing bolder, blowing up trains and sabotaging communications - everyone in high command had to be on the same page.

In an erratic fury, directed at no one in particular, Rommel stormed out of the room. Rundstedt and Germany watched him go with varying degrees of resignation and hope. The situation was dire, but if anyone could convince the Führer to send them reinforcements, it was the Desert Fox.

"Beilschmidt," Rundstedt said after a moment of consideration, "What is the condition in Bayeux?"

"It is the most heavily defended stretch. We had thirty-five miles to address, but it is secure now. The Americans are going to have quite the time getting through." Indeed, Germany was proud of himself for this particular accomplishment. The 352nd had not been deployed to Normandy until March, and when they got there they found the defenses to been lackluster and insufficient. Germany, whom Rommel had called upon a few days later, worked with him tirelessly to rectify the situation. He didn't mind, for it was certainly more stimulating than sitting around in Strasbourg doing paperwork, but he disliked the ever present possibility of an unpredicted attack. Early May had been an all too nerve-wracking period.

"That is good. I cannot say the same for the other divisions. They are static, untrained. If we have even a chance in hell of beating the Allies back into the sea it must be on the beaches."

"Do we even know when this supposed invasion is to occur?" Rundstedt shrugged.

"The weather is too turbulent. I doubt we can expect them before July," He said, "Dollmann wants to hold a map exercise in Rennes on the sixth. Will you be attending?"

"I plan to stay in Bayeux." Rundstedt nodded.

"Then I would encourage you to rest. You've been working yourself into the ground." Germany chuckled and shook his head.

"I shall rest when the war is won."


	2. The Longest Day

**Chapter II: The Longest Day**

 **June 5** **th** **, 1944**

 **Weymouth, England – 1800 Hours**

Lane found Carter outside. He stared out over the water towards France with an unblinking focus, fingers brushing over the letters on his dog-tag. His face was peaceful, no trace of apprehension or fear, merely quiet resignation, or perhaps brutal acceptance. Despite his youth, Carter was a war dog through and in. He'd been through many, many campaigns both as a frontline infantryman and commanding officer. This calm before the storm was normal for him, and something to which Lane had become accustomed. Everyone had their little rituals.

"Can't sleep?"

"No."

"Neither can I." He mirrored Carter's position, leaning over the railing. Inside, most everybody was asleep, or at least trying to be; they had a long, long day ahead of them.

"Do you think we can win?" Lane said at last.

"Well, we can't afford to lose."

Major Carter knew better than most what awaited them out there. One thousand yards of exposed sand peppered with mines, hedgerows, and barbed wire, and if that wasn't enough they were stocked with *Even if the bombers took out the heavy artillery they would still have the obstacles and the MG-42's to worry about. Those sons-of-bitches' could fire twelve-hundred bullets a minute, faster than any other gun in the world, and the Americans would be walking right into them.

Regardless of the odds, he didn't dare voice his doubts. To say them aloud was to give them more credence than they were worth. Instead he watched the tide splash against the jetty fifty yards out, the freezing winds rock the smaller vessels in port. It was cold out, but he didn't mind. It forced him to get his head in order and sort himself out; Major Carter was a veteran of the pre-battle nerves. The trick, he found, was not to banish the fear, but to reign it in with rationality and moor it with the true certainties of the pending ordeal. They were going to the beach, and many of them were not going to live to tell about it - Carter himself might end up as one of the casualties. He was just glad that Lane and Jones were bound for Omaha along with him; they were men he could trust with his life.

"Major?"

"Yes?"

"If one of us doesn't make it, I just want you to know that it's been an honor serving with you. I couldn't have asked for a better commander." Carter looked at him, surprised, but it was shortly followed by a smile. A genuine, earnest smile - the first that Lane had ever seen on him. In that moment he felt hope catch fire in his heart, as real, and true, and good as Carter's Yankee grin.

"Thanks, Jim. That means an awful lot." Neither of them said anything more, for there was nothing more to say. Both men, superior and subordinate, sat quiet and resigned for the remainder of the night, ready and willing to brave the coming storm.

 ****

 **0300 Hours**

If Carter thought it was cold in Weymouth Bay, he was unprepared for the wind's ferocity out in the middle of the Channel. It was relentless, biting right through his clothing as though with adder's teeth. What made it worse was the rocking boats and the chemical aroma of their treated uniforms, a counter-measure in case of a biological attack. He gagged, trying to suppress the inevitable seasickness and focused on taking long, steady breaths through his nose.

They were eleven miles out, trans-shipping into their landing crafts. It was an unpleasant and exhausting affair what with the state of the sea, but they'd rehearsed this part thousands of times; they had it down to a T. Soon the boats were primed and loaded and quieter than the grave. Carter was the highest ranking officer in his craft and therefore, he had to be utterly unaffected by the whole business. Outwardly, he appeared as such. But he wondered if they could sense the thundering chorus of his heart, the clenching in his gut, or the cold sweat under his service blouse. He clutched his plastic-wrapped carbine tight and shivered, worried not for himself, but for everyone else.

"You ok, sir?" Carter turned to acknowledge the man who spoke. Sergeant Streicher cocked a pale brow up into his helmet.

"Right as rain," He said, "Glad I skipped breakfast." Streicher grunted his affirmation. The navy, in an attempt to boost morale, provided the GIs with a veritable plethora of food. Sausage, steak, beans, bacon… It was tempting, but Carter had been out on the water before; seasickness was no joke. It made you slow, stupid, and easy to shoot.

"Speak for yourself," Streicher said in his brazen, unflappable manner and lit a cigarette, "I wasn't going to let good chow go to waste."

"Indeed." Was all he said, Streicher watched him openly.

"You sure you're ok? You look pale." Carter shot him an irritated glance.

"Don't worry about me, worry about the beach, and bag a few Krauts on the way." Streicher grinned immodestly. He was one of the best snipers that Carter had ever seen – one hundred and forty confirmed kills – and he wasn't afraid to let people know. Carter had met him a while back. They'd been on a scouting mission down in Sicily and Streicher had blown the head off of an Italian gunner five hundred yards away. Suffice it to say Carter'd been impressed.

The man himself was blonde haired, blue-eyed, and a Jew, with a hatred for Germans that ran far deeper than anything Carter had ever seen. It was only after their first meeting that Lane disclosed a rather ironic part of his personal history: Streicher had in fact been born in Hamburg, and his father was an old German flying ace. It was hard to believe at first, given Streicher's thick South Carolinian sensibilities, but once he knew what to look for Carter found it almost impossible to deny the man's heritage. Either way, he comprised a valuable asset to the company.

"I plan to. If I'm going to die, you can be damn sure I'm taking a couple of those bastards with me." He shouldered his rifle and sat back, eyes closed against the wind. Overhead the last of the planes passed by, each carrying a portion of the 101st airborne. Their job was to take out gunning positions or occupy certain spots in order to link up with the landing infantry later. Carter didn't envy their jobs; air surveillance revealed that the Germans flooded the land with waterin preparation for an airborne assault.

It was deadly silent when the planes were gone. The air was rank with fear as the men, most of them no older that eighteen, hunkered down to wait for H-hour. Carter looked over the soldiers in his craft with a resigned concern. _How many of these boys are going to die today?_

 ****

 **0430 Hours**

The engine started with a rip and a growl, and after a gut-wrenching lurch they were mobile, speeding through the choppy waves toward their destination: Omaha Beach. The wind was fierce and freezing, the sea spray even more so. It was not calm as the forecast had predicted, at least not on this stretch. Carter shuddered when a wave came over the side, dousing him and the sergeant who was looking greener by the second.

"Steady on Streicher, we'll get there eventually." Streicher glared at him, doubled over, and then vomited into the sea water. A man behind him did the same. Seasick. Carter ground his teeth, gripping his carbine tighter while the rest of them opted to stare stonily down at their hands, quiet and ashen-faced. Safe ground was rapidly disintegrating and quicker than anyone was ready for them, the cliffs appeared as a black streak on the horizon. Halfway between friendly shores and the killing floor. More men lost their breakfast over the side. With every yard they advanced, a little more of their composure waned and Carter knew something had to be done.

"Gentlemen, this is what we've been trained for. It's going to be hell, but by God, we're going to take that beach," Carter said, voice solemn, "Every one of us has a job to do, so I suggest we get in there and get it done." A chorus of 'yes sirs' answered him.

 ****

 **Bayeux, Normandy – 0630 Hours**

"General Beilschmidt! General Beilschmidt! The Allies are invading!"

Germany's blood ran cold the moment the lieutenant's voice broke his light slumber. He had not slept in thirty-six hours but suddenly his fatigue vanished and he was wide awake. He leapt from his bed, heart pounding in his stomach, and hastily grappled with his boots.

"Notify Rundstedt this instant!" He ordered, "I am going down there!"

"But sir-"

"Now Lieutenant!" The man instantly vacated the room.

Germany was under instruction not to go to the front lines, but he would disobey this morning. He could feel the direness of the situation stirring in his bones, a foreboding ice harden in his heart. This was not a ploy, he was sure of it. A radio broadcast from Britain last night, longer than usual, had raised his suspicions enough that he elected to remain nearby; he was prepared to face the reprimands of his superiors.

"Sir, communications are down! We cannot contact anyone!" The same lieutenant addressed him as he stalked briskly down the halls.

"Damn the Resistance!" He snarled, "Get the auto. I want to leave as soon as possible!'

"Yes sir."

"Kemmerich! Get on the radio, if anything comes through, anything at all, I want to know about it!" He said to another of his subordinates. The man departed and Germany continued on his warpath to the streets of Bayeux where his chauffeur waited, "Take me to my division." He was soon a cloud of dust on the French road.

 ****

 **H-hour**

A sound like a zipper tore away from the cliffs in a flash of gunpowder as soon as the LCTs became visible. The Germans had opened fire. Carter felt his heart jack-rabbiting in his chest, as fast as one of the guns. At once the chill began to dissipate from his skin as adrenaline rushed his system. He inhaled deeply the salt and gunpowder aroma.

"Thirty seconds 'til we land! Move fast and get the hell off this thing!" He shouted over the boom of the artillery. Evidently the bombers had missed their marks, for the big guns were intact and fully operational. The men looked now upon the white shore with terror. They'd been relying on those bombers! A shell properly placed was deadlier than any machine gun; if the concussive blast didn't kill you, the shrapnel would.

Another soldier up-chucked his breakfast into the churning waters.

"Steady on gentlemen!" Carter yelled one last bit of encouragement, and then the boat breached the sand bar.

Gunfire. Shells booming on the sand. Men screaming and howling as the MG-42's found their way through the safety of the rocking craft, cutting them down. In thirty seconds they'd entered the gates of hell and very few were getting out alive.

Carter, along with those who'd gathered their wits, hefted his carbine and hurtled over the edge into the sea. But the water, he swiftly realized, would offer no more refuge than the craft. His equipment dragged him down, down, down into the freezing Atlantic surf. Lungs burning. Fingers fumbling _. Come on you sonofabitch!_ Panic rose in Carter's stomach, coiling and contracting viciously, building up to a final crescendo when hyperventilation took over-

And then his radio dropped.

Weight gone, Carter kicked hard to the pin point of light four feet up. Soldiers that he had trained personally bobbed to the surface alongside him. Some were dead, others coughed and spluttered as he did, but at least they were alive.

"Move it! Move it! Get to the beach!" He surged forward with all his might. One hundred yards of water lay between him and solid ground where the lucky bastards who'd managed to weasel their way out the front took cover. Guns from both sides barked like a trilling crescendo, rattling the teeth in Carter's skull and shaking him to his bones.

A shell exploded twenty feet to his right, blasting a man in the air. Bloody water rained down on the rest of them. Carter spat out the red minutes in and already so many casualties… _What happened to the damn airstrike_? Carter huffed with rage and fatigue and pulled himself from the water, uniform dripping and heavier than ever.

"Sir, what do we do? We're getting killed out here!" A private shouted when the harried officer took refuge beside him. Carter bared his teeth, returning fire with a savage ferocity. On the bluff, a German fell.

"We have to get to the dunes-" A flurry of bullets cut off the rest of what he was fixing to say. They hit the sand, covering their heads until the gunner moved on, but it was a millisecond too late. One of the privates lay dead, four gaping holes in his chest, sputtering blood. His eyes were wide and sightless, staring at Carter.

" _Shit."_ He growled, looking away and out over the white sands. It wasn't right. This shouldn't be happening! All around him, men fired blindly at the Germans so thoroughly stowed away in their concrete nests while the American officers ran about in an effort to restore some semblance of order. They made easy targets. Carter watched as one commander after another was shot dead in between obstacles, only adding to the quickly growing body count.

He stayed where he was only out of common sense, though ever present in his mind was the urgent compulsion to get up and take control like an officer should, but it wasn't so simple anymore.

The lucky ones were pinned down same as Carter, the rest lay shot to pieces. It didn't matter what did it, be it mortar or machine gun, thirty minutes in and the surf ran red with American blood. Carter retched. Cannons and trench spikes and bayonets hadn't come close to this level of carnage. Strewn on the bloody ground were not only dead men, but ravaged entrails and gruesomely severed limbs. The survivors of such events howled desolately into the air. Some cried for their mothers or dragged their disattached limbs with them, others appeared to have simply gone mad and meandered aimlessly about the battlefield until the bullets found them too. Carter had eaten very little beforehand, but he fought to keep it down as he caught sight of yet another man holding his mangled, bloody intestines inside his body.

Another shell upturned the earth and knocked the wind out of his lungs.

"God help us all." He said.

 ****

 **0800 Hours**

A break finally came when one of the gunners stopped to reload. Carter rushed and dove for cover again, the others close behind. There was still a six-hundred yard gap between them and the cliffs and it would be near impossible to consolidate. There was too much confusion and uncertainty; Carter had no idea whom among the commanding staff was alive or even if they were in the right sector. He couldn't lead if he didn't know what the hell was going on.

A grave voice interrupted his desperate machinations.

"Carter, thank God, I thought you were KIA already." The major breathed a sigh of relief. Lane was haggard and torn up and the amount of blood on his uniform was enough to rival that of the corpses, but he was alive. That was more than Carter could've ask for.

"Likewise." They flattened themselves to the sand when a smattering of bullets spotted the earth, "Who else do we have?" Lane huffed, eyes forward and intense.

"We're _all_ that we have."

"Pardon me?"

"We're the only officers left."

"Good Christ…" Carter's sweaty, bloodied face momentarily took on the shadow of defeat. The whole invasion had gone from bad to worse in a matter of hours. Their hopes were damned, their ammunition was low, and as long as their forces remained leaderless it was sure to stay that way. Lane could see no possible way out. Omaha was a disaster.

But then a look came over Major Carter's face. A terrifying, proud look. He bared his teeth, glaring up at the German gun bases with eyes colder than a Russian winter. Determination was etched in every feature.

"Major?" Said Lane cautiously.

"We're not finished yet," He picked himself up at once, "We are getting off this damn beach."

 ****

 **0900 Hours**

What Lane witnessed then was something he would remember until the day he died. Carter went about their stretch of beach, shouting orders and words of patriotic encouragement. Eyes blazing and reservation shattered, he could have brought a king to his knees. He was a Napoleon, and a Washington, and an Augustus Caesar all at once, and no one could have stopped him. He sped freely between the groups of soldiers, his guts and determination fueling their own, and marshalled their confounded courage. Not a thing touched him, for he was on wings that morning. It was glorious, frightening and wonderful.

Carter, with rallied forces behind him, charged forward unimpeded. Four hundred yards he gained in this manner, ushering on the more timid men against the bullets and shells. The mist of fear that had once clouded the beach began to fade as Carter's courage drove theirs' to new heights. He was fearless and infallible, daunting and dauntless, and so were they. What's more, the follow up forces were landing and, seeing the rally, took heart as well. At their helm was a very unlikely figure.

"General Jones?"

"The hell is he doing here?" Carter said when they were both safely stationed behind a hedgerow; Lane couldn't quite tell if his expression was one of wonderment or exasperation. Jones was eager and earnest, and he had come when the brutalist part of the killing was over, when spirits were rekindled, and bravery restored. He didn't know the killing floor like they did.

In spite of his cavalier attitude, Carter could see the waver in his intent when he saw the bodies. In the instant it took for fifteen bullets to leave a German MG-42, his bright, young face became as old and pained as any of the other generals.

"Jones!" the Major waved once to get his attention and ducked down again just as quickly. Jones glanced once at them, flashing his iconic Yankee grin. He was up to their level in a matter of minutes.

"Holding down the fort?" He sent a few pot-shots at the Germans. They scuttled for cover atop the cliff face, but were soon back in position, returning fire as if nothing had happened.

Carter looked critically at his superior. Even after crossing six-hundred yards of bloody beach he still looked clean and put-together, unlike Carter and Lane who were sweaty, bloody, and miserable.

"As well as we can." Came Carter's trademark cynicism.

"Well what are we still doing here? Let's show the bastards some good-old American what-for!" He was raring to go, and would have if Carter hadn't yanked him back. A trail of bullets followed the path he would have taken.

"You jackass! We made it this far, don't go doing something stupid!" Lane's jaw hung open. He wouldn't have dared talk to Jones the way Carter did, but the man seemed to exact a certain modicum of authority over Jones, and it showed. The general said nothing.

"Listen here, we go fast and we go smart. These boys can't afford to lose us officers." Carter loomed over Jones in a manner that seemed almost superior and then backed off just as quickly. Their roles were proper again - Carter subordinate and Jones superior - though he made no move to apologize for his breach in etiquette.

Together, the last commanding officers on the Fox Green stretch, made their way, sprinting and dodging, up the sand. Behind them the tide encroached ever faster, cutting the once thousand yard trek to a mere hundred. There were few options at this point other than to advance and to do so with the least bloodshed possible – at least on the American side. Carter and Jones were damn good shots.

"We got to find a way to get up to that gunner," the major jerked his head toward the concrete fortress nearest them, "Bastard's giving us a hell of a time." They pressed themselves flat to the sand bar as the guns passed over them.

"Agreed." Jones said, "How are we getting up there?" Carter furrowed his knife-sharp brows, though the movement was invisible under his helmet. He motioned to Lane a few yards away.

"Is that Streicher I see over there?" Lane squinted down a ways.

"Well I'll be damned, it is!" Indeed, the ex-German was brandishing his famous rifle and yelling at a private. Even at this distance, dirty and haggard, he was impossible to mistake. His hair was so yellow it could've outshined a canary, "Strike! Over here!"

"Lane?" He crept over to their position, "I thought you were dog-meat."

"Not yet, I'm not. Look, you think you can hit that som'bitch in there?" They watched closely as Streicher stuck his helmeted head over the rise and pulled it back down just as quickly. A few shots followed.

"I can get 'im. But another one'll take his place, it'll only give you a second." Carter smiled coldly.

"That's all we need. Wright!" He barked, "Where's that torpedo?"

"Here sir!" Came the reply a few yards down.

"Once we blow the wire I need you to take the shot. I want to get as many of our boys through as possible." Carter's proper language had been disintegrating all morning, at this point his speech resembled that of a half-bred, Statten Island Italian. No one commented on it.

The privates, under Lane's supervision, rapidly attached the dual ends of the torpedo. It was a relatively new implement, meant for clearing obstacles on land, and Carter was absolutely ecstatic to put it to its use. The fuse was lit and with a mighty shove they jammed it underneath the coils of barbed wire. Meanwhile, Streicher took meticulous aim.

"Fire in the hole!" Carter bellowed and covered his head. The resounding blast was a good, solid sound, completely masking Streicher's shot. He smiled in grim satisfaction when the soldier manning the gun was jerked backward. The firestorm ceased.

"Come on men! Get in there!" The charge began with Carter and Jones at the helm. Lane took a second to marvel at the utter fearlessness on their young faces. There was no trepidation, only the most morose determination coupled with the spark of vengeance. Guns raised, they skirted the last stretch of sand with an expert precision. Carter, nimble as a wildcat, twisted to return fire at a German on the cliffs. The man crumpled and the invaders carried on.

"Jones, on you left!" At his aide's brisk words the general shied away from a buried mine. He jerked his head once in thanks, but if Carter saw it he gave no indication. His attention was fully on the fortress squatting in the face of the cliff. Without hesitation he threw himself at the rock face and began to weedle through the crevices. The others did the same, a swarm of olive-green, gun-toting, angry Americans intent on dolling out a little payback for the hell they'd been through, flooded the low cliffs.

Carter, up front, unpinned a grenade and tossed it into the opening where gunfire burst forth. There were screams to evacuate before the muffled blast cut them off. One gunner down. One less man to mow down the reinforcements. Carter was entirely without remorse. A few German lives in exchange for hundreds of Americans? The question was practically rhetorical.

 ****

 **1030 Hours**

Up-top was little better than down below in that the Americans faced guns wherever they turned. Carter and Jones' forces managed to link up with part of the 16th from Fox Red and together they blazed a trail into occupied land, worried at all times that they might be outflanked. Fortunately, the steady stream of reinforcements coming up the rise as well as the knowledge that Omaha had not been in vain assuaged most of their fears of such an outcome. The cause for most trepidation, however, lay with the possibility of a concentrated German counterattack. If the panzer forces arrived it wouldn't take much to push them back into the channel, for their progress, though quick, was easily uprooted. Nonetheless, the few officers who survived were proactive about establishing the defensive lines. Jones especially was eager to push forward and it was only by his subordinates admonishing that he did so with accompaniment. A German strongpoint lay not but a mile or two inland, and the young general wanted it.

With the general at the helm, they stole forward hastily, shooting their way through German territory. A few times they paused to take prisoners, but more often than not, firefights would end with German casualties and American victory. Carter was especially unsympathetic in those crucial hours; he hit his marks with an accuracy to rival Streicher's and Lane soon lost count of his kills.

"Captain, take you men left. We'll go right and surround 'em" Jones ordered, peering over the rise to observe the German fortress. The officer from Fox Red nodded and made off with his half while Jones, Lane, and Carter split off with theirs.

AS could be expected the German defense, while already nominal, was thicker the closer they got. Krauts waited in the trees and bushes, behind rocks and in copses, with grenades and guns and all manner of explosives. Carter ground his teeth as a bullet grazed his helmet, another lodged in his canteen, however, it was the sound of one of Hitler's Zippers that put the fear of God in him.

"Damn," He peaked around a tree, "They got an MG – 42 over there."

"Shit." Jones intoned, understanding what it meant. The gun was safely stationed in a sandbag crew one hundred and fifty yards right of the main objective. If they took their forces any further it would shred the right flank.

"What are we going to do about it?" Lane removed his spent cartridge and put in a new one while Jones appraised the terrain with a discerning eye. The way he saw it, the best way to do it would be on their own.

"We'll take ten. When we get up there I want Carter left and Lane right. I'll go up the center. Streicher see if you can't pick a couple of 'em off."

"Yes sir." Replied the sergeant.

"You really want to go all in?" Carter inquired, never once taking his cold eyes off their target. He meant the officers.

"Better us than them." Jones said. The major glanced at him meaningfully, nodding as if he knew something the rest of them didn't, and reaffixed his gaze.

"Will do." Carter took a second to check his side-arms and, apparently finding no defections, replaced them in their holsters with the practiced ease of a seasoned marksman. Lane recognized that habit of his, and though he knew not its significance, he understood what it meant: Carter would take no prisoners.

With their contingent in tow they split off from the main force, over the rugged earth and weathered rocks. They made good progress too, until Jones called for action some fifty yards away from the objective. It was then that things started to go to hell.

Carter's heart stopped as a shrill projectile whistled through the air with a sonic scream. For a single, terrifying moment, the air was completely still. _Oh no._

"Look out!" Came Lane's shout, and Carter, forgetting all else, threw himself at Jones the instant before the shell exploded, smack in the middle of their small outfit.

Smoke. Dirt. Blood in the mouth. Shaking fingers and ringing ears. Carter lay face down in a ditch tangled up with Jones. His head buzzed with a sooty fog. His ears rang. Someone shouting. Who? He couldn't tell. It was dark, eyes caked in dirt. Breathing hard. He moved trembling, fuzzy hands along the ground to pick himself up. Failed. Tried. Failed again.

A ringing pain stung in his belly, burning face in the mud, but he was alive. Alive because of a runoff ditch. But where was Jones? Where was America? He reached out, hands a blur in his garbled eyesight, to touch the body next to him.

"Jones." He croaked, "Jones!" Someone put their hands on him from behind. Carter reacted in an instant, pistol out and aimed at the intruder, bloody teeth bared. There was nothing to lose here.

"Carter! Relax, it's me!" The intruder said, hands up in surrender, "It me, Jim Lane!" Carter deflated, sagging back on his heels. Lane had his bloody arm clasped to his chest, broken perhaps, either way, useless. His cheek was almost entirely blown off.

"Jim, you scared the bejesus out of me." Carter raised an eyebrow at Lane's thunderstruck expression, "What?"

"Carter, you're bleeding." The major reached down to touch an oozing wound in his middle. It was deep and painful, but he would live.

"Doesn't matter. I'll be fine. Here help me with him, we still got to get to that gun." Carter tugged Jones up by the straps and sat him against the side of the ditch, he was breathing, but unconscious, "Lane, are you deaf? Help me out here!"

"Carter, they're dead. All the men are dead, we can't get up there with just the two of us!" Carter shook his head, refusing to believe it.

"No, we can. We can do it." He shakily wiped a trail of blood from his mouth and peaked over the edge. A shot came in response, narrowly missing Carter's head, "Heavens to Murgatroyd." He breathed, pulling back. It was more than just the matter of the machine gun now.

"There's a lot of 'em up there Jim." Carter said gravely, his voice just shy of a whisper. Indeed they could hear German voices fast approaching, swarming over the rocks and ditches like a deadly plague.

"Shit." Jim breathed, peering over as Carter had done, "What are we going to do? They'll shoot us as soon as we go up there. We're sitting ducks." Carter swallowed and leaned his back, eyes closed. Jim joined him for a brief moment of respite. They weren't going to be able to get at the gun crew, but perhaps they could bypass the area and outflank it later. As if there was another option… After a second or two, the major inhaled two deep breaths and turned to him, calm expression defying the seriousness of the situation.

"Lane," He said, totally focused on reloading his pistols, "I need you to do something for me."

"Yes sir, anything."

"Look, they cannot have Jones. They must not," He moved forward, in front of Lane, "Now you listen to me, I'm going to draw off-" Lane's eyes widened and he gripped his superior's arm.

"Carter no-" The major shrugged him off, freezing him with a single glare.

"Lane, this is not up for debate. I'm the only one of us who can do this. Now when I draw them off you've got to take Jones and get out of here. Head for that rise, find the rest of the platoon, but get him to safety. That is the top priority." Superior and subordinate surveyed each other, willing someone to break, but neither would.

"Carter, that's suicide. I can't let you go in there, you're far more valuable than Jones." Carter's eyes flared with blue lightning. He seized Lane by the collar and jerked him forward with surprising strength. Lane swallowed. There was no changing Carter's mind when he was like this, but God help him, he didn't want to lose his friend.

"Don't you say that! Don't you even think it! Jones is worth more to the right people than you could ever comprehend. Now you get him to safety, are we clear?"

"Yes sir." Lane said with a forced and bitter resignation.

"Good." Carter scooped up his rifle from the muddy ground with a care that one might exhibit for a small child and checked the cartridge. Full. He closed it with finality.

"Carter, wait," The major looked down at him, slightly aggravated. Lane extended his good hand, "Don't miss." Carter huffed a sort of laugh. He never missed.

"I'll remember that for the next life." With a cheeky grin he cocked his rifle, stood, fired, and charged. Over the edge of the ditch and away from Lane and Jones in what was most likely his final battle.

"And may it treat you well, Major." Lane said and steeled himself to face his own fate as Carter faced his. He would not waste the time that Major Carter bought with his life, even if it were for an audacious, inexperienced, young general, "Jones." He said as he hoisted the man over his good shoulder, "You better be worth it."

Carter knew what he was doing, knew it better than perhaps he knew himself. He might die, he very well could, but some things were worth it. He had very little fear of death, in fact, one might say he welcomed it.

With the grace of a hunting cat, Carter stood, drawing German eyes to his position instead of Lane's, and killed two of them with a brutal precision before they even knew what was happening. In another moment he was gone. A green blur amongst greener trees.

 _Come on you sons of bitches. This way!_ He spared a glance over his shoulder to see if they were giving chase. They were. Gunfire cracked and started, closer and louder now that they were aimed exclusively at Carter. He dodged and weaved, returning fire when he could, whatever kept them on his trail and off Lane's. There were eight behind him, possibly more, but Carter held no delusions about surviving. Lane was right: this was a one way trip. He'd just have to hold out.

Finally, as the land dipped and rose in swathes of verdant green, he found himself facing an insurmountable foe. A ridge rose up and over him, unclimbable in the amount of time he had and jagged with white rock. Carter halted in order to scout. Behind him was the battle and from the right a German platoon closed in, their helmeted heads weaving between the trees that Carter himself had skirted not moments ago. This was it. The only option was to stand and fight.

Carter licked his lips and squatted behind a boulder. Shots ricocheted off the instant the Kraut's came in range, but Carter tuned them out. He took aim, fired, and reloaded. A succession so familiar and easy that he didn't even need to think about it. Nearly every bullet hit its mark, serving only to warn the advancing Germans as to Carter's skill and accuracy. He was peppered with fire from nearly every conceivable direction. They were closing in, surrounding him. His survival instinct told him to flee, but rationality reminded him that there was nowhere to go. He was stuck. He kept firing anyway.

A blast from the north, Carter's unprotected flank, sparked and dug into his side. He cried out, pivoted, and shot the man. In the turmoil an opening presented itself and Carter took it, flashing out, low to the ground, and into the bushes, just before the Germans cut him off. Indeed it was a miracle he'd survived this long, with a bleeding wound in his stomach and multiple other things which practical, frosty-eyed Major Carter had not time to catalogue. He was in awe of his own prowess, either that or Germany's deficiencies. For a moment he even thought he might make it back to the main event unscathed.

It was the work of a moment to raze that small hope to the ground.

Carter skidded to an abrupt halt when five Karabiner rifles were cocked and pointed at him. Their owners materialized out of the foliage, disguised insofar to Carter's distracted, boasting eye. He felt his ragged breathing and pounding heart expedite beyond mortal limits when the path from whence he'd just came was blocked by another slew of German soldiers, all of whom had their weapons drawn and aimed.

"Drop it." One of them growled in heavily accented English. Probably the only words of English he knew. Carter swallowed and slowly, painfully, lowered his carbine. He had never parted with that weapon, nor with the pistols at his side, or the knife in his belt. It was akin to blasphemy.

"Mein Gott." Another of them said. Carter, with his hands in the air, noticed at last the shocking ache in his side. A bloodstain the size of Texas was soaking its way through his clothing, angry and merciless. _Jesus H._ Carter glanced at it and back towards the Germans. One had his eyes on the weapons at Carter's feet, daring him to make a move towards them. He stayed still as his precious rifle was taken into enemy hands and he was forced to his knees. Swiftly they frisked him for anything more. _Lane, you better be safe._


	3. Unrested Laurels

**June 6** **th** **, 1944**

 **Sainte-Honorine-des-Pertes – 1200 Hours**

The situation was far worse than Germany initially imagined. By midday, reports of invasions up and down the coast continued to flood his field headquarters while his reserve forces were spread ever thinner in response. The Allies had thrown everything they had at the coast: their guns, their navy, their air force - even Germany was beginning to lose hope. In an uncharacteristic display of emotion Germany threw down his crush cap and raked both hands through his sleek yellow hair. What else was to be done? He may as well have been the only officer out here given the lack decisive authority from high command. If only they'd toughened up on the Resistance sooner they may still have had a means of communication, now the only way to get a message from one place to another was to send a runner and, more often than not, by the time the runner actually arrived the information was already outdated. There was no way they could push the Allies back in their current state; he needed the panzer reserves!

Germany's last hope for the defense of France lay with Rommel. A few days ago he'd made for Berlin with the hope that his reputation would be good for one last favor; the Fuhrer couldn't possibly refuse them now, not when they so desperately needed reinforcements.

Pursing his lips, Germany took a look at his pocket watch. One o'clock. He made no further move to sate his grim anxiety. The others must not see how disgruntled he was; they were already anxious enough. With the 21st – their single panzer division - deployed on both sides of the River Orne in order to tackle the British paratroops, the forces remaining were non-mobile and unable to respond quickly. The situation was looking bleaker by the second, especially since the commanders Germany had managed to contact firmly believed that this was merely the precursor to the main invasion in the Pas-de-Calais. How the Allies could have the strength for a ploy on such a large scale baffled him. They couldn't possibly have the man power, let alone the munitions to do so! But alas, no one regarded his warnings, and so the larger 12th panzer division remained at Lisieux, idle and useless.

A sudden racket from outside jolted the country from his despairing thoughts. Somebody, a group actually, was shouting. At first Germany paid them no mind. Until the first shot went off. Immediately, he feared the very worse. Had the Americans come? Was the field headquarters under attack? Oh God help them if they were.

"General Beilschmidt! You must come at once!" A distressed sergeant addressed him just as he finished loading his standard issue Walther p38. Germany wasted not a moment and followed him outside.

"What is going on?" He asked to which the sergeant responded with near incoherency.

"We thought he was secure but he moved so fast and there was nothing we could do-"

"Slow down, had who secure?"

"The prisoner, the American! He's got Friedmann!"

Outside there was no invasion force to be found, nor bloody usurpation commencing, only a rapidly growing ring of men near the road. What lay at the center Germany had a pretty good hunch. His frown deepened as he made his way through. The throng parted upon seeing the presence of their highest commanding officer, but the din did not cease and Germany soon found that his initial fear of an American attack was not so far off track.

"Back off! Back off or I shoot!" The American, voice hard, clear, and no-nonsense, brandished a Luger pistol in one arm. In the other he held, frightened out of his wits, the youngest and smallest in their company. Friedmann, his name was, and he looked ready to wet himself. Germany took action immediately.

"Yankee!" He shouted, for he did not know the man's name, "Let the boy go! You are only making it worse for yourself!" Everyone seemed taken aback by his fluent English but none more so than the American. The man's eyes snapped in his direction, quicker than lightning, and a look of utter appellation momentarily overtook his cold hostility. His face paled as he took in Germany's urgent expression and tense posture.

"Not gonna happen. Not until I go free!"

"You know I cannot make that promise. The boy has nothing to do with you. Let him go, and we can discuss things civilly." Germany took a step forward, hands up as a gesture of peace.

With the closer proximity it was easier to gauge the man, an officer actually. But even from a distance it was clear how awful he looked. The face under his helmet was sweaty and covered in all manner of grime, a deep cut split his bottom lip and dripped blood down his chin, lending him a feral countenance. He was slender, almost as small as Friedmann, but by no means weak. Rather, he used his size to his advantage, hiding almost completely behind the eighteen year old. Germany almost had to commend him; only men with nothing to lose had the guts to pull a desperate move like this, and only the most slippery of those succeeded.

"Keep your distance Kraut." He growled slowly and efficaciously, tightening his grip around Friedmann's head. The boy grasped at the arm holding him but the American ignored it, keeping his stormy eyes on Germany. In turn, Germany's face darkened. He was not one for bargaining.

"Hear me, American. If you kill him, we will not hesitate to kill you. If you let him go and cooperate with me you can keep your head," Germany surveyed him a moment with an equally cold expression, "Those are your options, you may take it or leave it. But know that I will not lose any sleep over a dead enemy."

Gradually he saw a change in the American's beaten and bloodied face, following the callous ultimatum. His eyes lost their wily sheen and became coldly rational once more, his bared teeth disappeared. _Hold on a moment. Didn't he have a wound there_? Germany narrowed his eyes in order to see better, but found that they had not betrayed him. There was not a cut to be found anywhere on the man, in fact, his color seemed better already. He decided that it must be the light.

The American took one last hawkish look at his odds and, with a gruff hiss, shoved Friedmann into Germany's arms. The Luger was shortly to follow. He straightened to his full height, proud head high, and raised his arms above his head. Germany shrugged the trembling Friedmann off him, holding the American's blue eyes steady all the while. A challenge. Even after the men subdued him, he did not break eye contact. It was a gesture of arrogance and disdain, and Germany, feeling his own ego stirring in his breast, approached the now detained offier, lip curled scornfully.

"What are you called, American?" He used the barrel of his pistol to tip up the man's head, much as he would if he were appraising a horse. He was a major, if Germany's knowledge of American insignia was accurate, and he glared at him with such unmitigated hatred it was shocking. However, Germany did not back down, nor did he rescind his question. When the man did not answer Germany seized the dog tag around his neck, manners be damned.

"Major Randall Carter," He read aloud, "Quite the rank for someone your age." Germany elected to ignore the typhoon of fury in the Major's eyes in favor of the elation budding in his own chest. An officer of his rank would have all kinds of information! It was just a matter of obtaining it.

"You want my income tax return too while you're at it?" Germany raised a slim brow. The man shrugged furtively in an attempt to loosen the grip of the hands on his person. _Did he know him from somewhere_? He stepped closerto get a better look. Major Carter twisted his head away, revealing a deep abrasion that, in a matter of seconds, knitted itself back together before disappearing completely.

"What in the name of God?" In his shock he seized the Major's face forcefully, turning it from side to side in an effort to verify if what he thought he saw was real. If anyone questioned his odd behavior he paid them no mind; the appearance of the Ghost of Christmas Past could not have been a more hair-raising sight.

There were very few people who could do that, and all of them were countries.

"Keep your damn hands off me!" Major Carter, slender and fierce, wrenched himself away, his once cool expression now one of explosive fury. Germany took a step back in order to collect his scattered thoughts. _Who was this man? And why could he do that?_ He was no country Germany knew of - unless America was somehow replaced - but that was absurd, not to mention impossible.

"Take this man to Strasbourg immediately," Germany said, his voice barely exceeding a murmur, "And do not let him escape or you will have me to answer to. What are you waiting for? On the double time! " The soldiers scrambled to comply and soon the cold, critical Major Carter was propelled away, struggling and cursing, to one of the lorries where he would be taken to the POW camp nearest Germany's personal headquarters.

 **Normandy Beach – 1700 Hours**

"Ow! Goddammit Selridge, watch the needle would you?" Lane dug his nails into the pad of one finger to keep from causing bodily harm on the offending medic. Exhaustion and pain had culminated in the foulest of moods and he found himself with little patience to spare for tom foolery.

"Hold still Lieutenant, I'm almost through."

"You said that five minutes ago." He grumbled, wincing as another suture went through the flesh of his shooting arm.

The sooner he could be out of here the better. Omaha be damned, the field hospital was about the worst place on any battle field. There was no pride, no glory to be had, only the malodorous stench of gangrene and the sounds of dying men. Even Lane, who prided himself on his strong stomach, was finding it hard not to lose his lunch. For hours he'd been confined here, either awaiting his turn to be looked at or checking on Jones in the space next to him, whatever it took for him not to dwell on the loss of Major Carter.

To say Lane was devastated would have been an understatement. He was beside himself with grief, and the only thing keeping him together was the knowledge that Carter would be highly disappointed with him if he didn't. Even so, it in no way assuaged the pain of losing a good friend.

What would they do without him? What would _Jones_ do without him? The young general was as good a friend to Carter as Lane was, regardless of how they dealt with each other; t he blow was going to be apoplectic.

But what was worse than all that, yes, worse even Carter's untimely demise, was the fact that Lane, of all people, was alive and well. Bum arm or not, he should have been the one to go out there _._ But he wasn't. His strong, courageous commander was.

"God, how can I go on?" Lane turned his face upwards, eyes shut in prayer and residual guilt. There was nothing to be done now; Carter had made a choice, and now it was time for Lane to make his. He had to keep going, if not for himself then for Carter. To flag now would be to disrespect his memory.

"Hey Lieutenant? You may want to come over here." Selridge's surly voice sounded to the right of him, "He's coming to." Lane, swallowing, moved to join Selridge over Jones' prone form. He'd suffered head trauma from the explosion, but everything else was relatively minor in comparison. Lane reckoned that Carter had shielded him from a good deal of it. He was a very lucky man.

"General? Can you hear me?" He said cautiously and for a moment there was nothing, but then Jones shifted and slowly, in the manner of a man coming out of a stupor, opened his eyes.

"Lane? Is that you?" Jones asked, voice scratchy. Selridge made to help him sit up but soon found that he was not needed. Jones pushed himself up just fine.

"Yeah, I'm here." Lane could feel the General's next question before it was asked and grimaced prematurely.

"Where's Carter?" He had to look away, but fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, he was saved from having to answer as another officer came blustering into their midst.

"Amer- I mean General Jones, what are you doing lying about? We have business to attend to." The man strode imperiously to Jones' side, a bushy eyebrow cocked in a haughty manner as if he stood above everyone else. He was young, as Jones was, and English. Lane felt an instant aversion to him. The lieutenant straightened to his full height, which was a good six inches taller than the Englishman, and squared his shoulders; if Jones didn't want him here then Lane would be all too happy to escort the presumptuous Tommy out, however Jones seemed to have the situation under control.

"Arthur, don't you have some food to burn or something? I'm occupied, if you hadn't bothered to notice." The manner in which they communicated was completely bereft of any kind of professionalism, or even the respect one would typically use to address an officer of a different nationality. Instead, they sounded as if they'd known each other for years. Lane realized that this must be Arthur Kirkland, Jones' counterpart from England. Carter always spoke highly of him.

"Why no, actually," The Englishman sneered, though his scorn seemed good-natured, brotherly even, "I came to see why you and your aide were absent from the situation conference. I trust you had a very good reason."

"As a matter of fact I did." With that Jones pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the medic's protests, "Which reminds me, Lane where did you say Carter went?" The Lieutenant felt thoroughly caught off guard by Jones' quick-fire speech, and thoroughly intimidated when both generals turned their eyes on him.

"Sir, I'm sorry to have to tell you this but… Major Carter is most likely dead." Jones' jubilant expression wilted like a cut flower. In that moment he looked nothing more than what he was: a boy in man's clothing. The Englishman's face was equally grim, though in a much more controlled manner.

"Oh, Alfred, I'm so sorry." Kirkland murmured, grief in his eyes as well.

"No. That can't be right. Carter can't be… How did this happen?" Jones stumbled back, fractured and rapidly shaking his head. Lane could only purse his lips.

"You were unconscious after the shell exploded. There were Krauts everywhere. We were pinned down," Lane paused to collect himself, "Major Carter went to draw them off while I got you out of there."

"Have they found a body?"

"They have only just started counting the casualties, sir."

"Well that's got to mean something! Carter can't be dead! I refuse to believe it!" At this point, Kirkland decided to step in.

"Pull yourself together man! Regardless of the recovery of a body, Major Carter is no longer able to perform his duties. You must find a replacement and carry on!"

"Arthur you don't understand. Carter's my friend. I can't just replace him. Not until I know for certain." Kirkland, noticing the eyes they were attracting, lowered his voice to a deadly whisper.

"Alfred, the war will not wait for one man. You have a duty to your people that you have sworn to complete. Does that mean nothing to you?" The two men stared at each other for an interminable length of time, Jones pleading, Kirkland firm and unyielding. Lane could only stand there, an uninvited guest to a battle of wills.

"No," Jones finally said, "But I'm not replacing Carter."

"Fine. Have it your way, but do not forget that we are in this together. If you flag, the West will fall." The worry in Kirkland's voice was palpable, making both Lane and Jones avert their eyes, though Lane, for his part, knew little of the true gravity of Kirkland's words. Jones, on the other hand, felt the weight of the world come crashing down around his shoulders.

 **Somewhere Outside Paris - 1700 Hours**

Boy, he'd done it this time. Carter, head in hands, sat disgruntled and agitated in the back of a German jeep with other POWs, viciously berating himself. Why, oh why was Germany here? The one man who had the power to ruin everything, who may have just done so in his careless observation. Oh God, what was in store for Carter now? All he'd ever done, all he'd ever tried to do, was for the good of his country and now he couldn't even do that. He could've gotten away if only he'd been more careful, if only he hadn't let his emotions get in the way. But it wasn't simply emotion was it? It was a matter of logic as well. They would've killed him either way, or at least tried to; there was nothing that could've been done to salvage the situation, and yet Carter felt it as keenly as he would a betrayal. It was a monumental failure on his part, but then again, he'd saved America hadn't he? He'd done so with the forfeiture of his own life yes, but the larger goal was still uncompromised. They would never have America as long as he was alive.

Even so, Carter could help but fear what fate had planned for him. Germany knew something was up – he was not stupid – and Carter would be damned if he thought the man wouldn't investigate him further. He'd seen what Carter could do, what potential he could bring to the table; if Carter were a weak man he could give up information that would destroy the Western Allies. Good thing he never would. No… he would rather die a thousand deaths than tell Germany what he wanted to know, and that was a promise.

As they rumbled their way through the French countryside with the nauseating odor of fuel and blood in the air, Carter couldn't help but observe the other American soldiers – POWs now - in the jeep with him. There were approximately a dozen or so, all officers – bloody and exhausted - and all at different levels of the acceptance barometer. Carter reckoned that he was somewhere between abject denial and appalling anger, denial for he'd never been out for the count in the entirety of his military career and anger at having ruined his record. All things aside though, he would miss Lane, and Jones, and his freedom, and even that contriving German sergeant and the new recruits he had to train.

"God bless America…" He tore off his helmet and raked his fingers through his filthy hair. He could not afford to think that way.

"Don't worry son, we'll get through it." The man next to him, grey haired and clearly of a different regiment, patted him stoutly on the shoulder. Carter, realizing how ridiculous he must look, straightened immediately and reaffixed his mask of cool discernment, brushing off whatever mild offense rose in him.

"It ain't me I'm worried about," That was a lie, but they didn't need to know that, "Major Carter, 16th regiment, 1st division." He extended his hand amicably. The grey haired officer gave a low whistle and took it.

"Captain Langley, 101st airborne, at your service." Carter couldn't resist a small chuckle at the idea that this man, clearly middle-aged, was a lower rank than himself.

"Good to meet you." He returned with the same brisk professionalism.

"So, army, eh?"

"That's right. Part of the invasion force, first wave." Another low whistle.

"And a major you said?" Carter jerked his head in affirmation, "You don't look a day over twenty."

"Thirty-one, actually." Langley tried not to dwell on that and changed the subject.

"You know where we're going?"

"Not a damn clue." Carter sat back, intent on looking put-together and unruffled, but no amount of self-assurance could assuage the heart of the matter. He was damn terrified.

 **1900 Hours**

An hour or two they'd been driving, though it was only when the Eifel Tower appeared on the horizon that Carter truly felt the band of uncertainty constrict in his chest. Paris. They were in Paris. The city that only a few hours ago seemed unreachable, and now he was here. The irony almost killed him.

The slatted window in the back of the lorry offered a very limited view of evening time in the French capital but the Americans were thunderstruck nonetheless. They gazed at it in awe, in pride; they were the first American soldiers in Paris! Albeit only by default. Carter looked at it only in sadness. The city had changed profoundly since his last visit and certainly not for the better. Boy oh boy, it was as if all the life had been sucked from it, like a diamond that had lost its luster, a tarnished remnant from a history that had been forgotten. Paris just seemed so grey and abysmal, utterly bereft of hope save that of the Nazi officials parked here.

Every time Carter caught a glimpse of the black-uniformed SS men marching along the sidewalks he wondered after his future, both with anxiety and animosity. What awaited them in the POW camps? Would they face beatings and torture every day? Humiliation and cruelty? Carter wouldn't stand for it.

To quote Zapata, he would rather die on his feet than live on his knees.

The lorry ground to a halt, jerking the prisoners forward. Carter had to smile. This had nothing on the LCT's.

"Now what?" He ground out just as someone wrenched open the doors, flooding light on the disheveled bunch. The German soldier jerked his head in lieu of speech, probably for lack of English, but the meaning was clear. The Americans filed out, hands on their heads, into the cold sunlight, eyes hard and squinted.

An officer approached, looking grim and unforgiving. In his hands was a sheaf of paper, field reports perhaps, or orders from the big-wigs on the front. Carter bet everything he had on the latter.

"Which of you is Randall Carter?" The Americans stilled, looking first at each other and then at their younger counterpart who straightened at once to his full height, eyes narrowed. The massive bloodstain on his right side was viewable in full now that he was no longer in the darkness, and the American officers regarded it uneasily. That was an awful lot of blood.

"I am." He said cautiously. The officer surveyed him a moment.

"Come with me. The rest of you stay here."

"Now wait just a minute!" Langley leapt to his defense in rather surprising burst of confidence. Carter had his eyebrow up, "You can't-"

"Silence." The officer hissed. Around them, the soldiers took a step forward, weapons trained. Even so, the dissenting Americans remained firm until Carter raised his hand for peace. There were already enough American casualties today, no need for more.

"Stand down," He said, "I will go." The officer signaled his men who quickly moved to separate Carter from his fellow Americans. He bristled when he was prodded unnecessarily to get going but otherwise gave no protest. The others could only watch helplessly as the youngest among them was marched off to an uncertain fate. Many of them had heard good things about the wily young commander in the past, therefore it was with a certain amount of idolatry that they regarded him now. He was rather a legend in certain circles, especially those who had served in the Italian campaign. If they were at all accurate, he was General Jones' right-hand-man and confidante, scourge of Salerno, and all-American patriot; simply an admirable personality among the ranks. It made it that much harder to watch him go, knowing that even a person like Major Carter could be brought to his knees.

"Where you taking me?" Carter asked when somebody prodded him again, further down the street. The officer didn't answer, only drew him into another, significantly smaller, vehicle and shut the door. The guards followed. In a moment they were off, heading east and away from the French capital. Away from everything Carter knew. He caught himself looking back, wondering where the others would be going and why he wasn't going with them. It had to be Germany's doing, "Hey Kraut, I'm talking to you! Where are you taking me?" He enunciated slowly, his New York dialect coming through in his anger.

The soldier sitting in the back with him clocked him with the butt of his rifle. Carter growled; however, he surmised the only reason the reprisal wasn't worse was the fact that only the officer spoke English, judging by the look he gave him from the front seat.

"Strasbourg." He finally answered. Carter raised an incredulous brow. He wasn't even leaving France? The Allies would be there in no time! For the first time since the day began Major Carter let hope bloom unreservedly in his chest. He would survive, he would rally his forces, and he would fight on. He must.


	4. Foreign Territory

**Normandy, France**

 **June 7** **th** **, 1944**

Alfred F. Jones – America, to those who knew him as such - was seated at an Underwood typewriter, fingers hovering just above the keys and wondering how he would begin writing the condolence letter to Major Carter's next of kin. Many times he had started, as was evidenced by the pile of crumpled, sad-looking sheets scattered across his makeshift desk, but found that he simply did not have the words. His heart was shaded by grief and as a result, his mind was a barren wasteland, bereft of the language it would take to communicate the deeds of his comrade. He sighed, looking at the blank sheet before him and methodically began to type, however shortly in he realized that it was just as dull and impersonal as the rest of them and he ripped the paper from the machine. It soon added to the already copious pile.

There was so much he wanted to say, but it never came out right. He knew it was his duty to write home to the families of fallen officers personally and calmly instruct them of their husband's or son's fate, and often the letters were relatively simple, concise, and to the point, but in this case the typical sullen drivel just wouldn't cut it. America couldn't imagine how it would feel to receive such a letter.

Adding additional salt onto the wound of Major Carter's loss was the lack of a corpse and therefore, the lack of a definitive fate to put into the letter. It would say MIA for "Missing in Action," but that was a about as comforting as a stinging scorpion; the only thing an MIA gave to the family was a false sense of hope, or additional anxiety. It could mean a whole range of things, from capture, to death, to defection, though that was unlikely in Major Carter's case, and America found that families with relatives who were MIA suffered more than anyone else on the home-front.

America exhaled heavily, rereading Carter's file yet again. Inside he found, among all the records and writings, a single picture of him. He was impeccably groomed and in full dress uniform, with medals and pins everywhere, and a rare smile gracing his lips, lending him a sly, self-assured air. Even still and in sepia, his stormy gaze seemed to go on for miles, challenging anyone who dared look upon him. A thousand-yard stare, the old war dogs called it. It was an expression America recognized, for he'd seen it just yesterday on the battlefield; it was hard to forget that intensity.

With a heavy heart, America reburied the photograph in its papery sepulcher and turned his attention back to the letter. It was to be addressed to someone named Lawrence Carter, his father perhaps, or maybe a brother. America didn't know which one would be worse. In his time, he'd lost both at one point or another, but at least England and Canada were still alive and well. This Lawrence Carter, whichever he may be, would, in all probability, face a permanent loss. Major Carter's fate was looking bleaker every second he was away.

But life went on.

Which brought America to his next order of business: Major Carter's _temporary_ replacement. After a sleepless night spent deliberating his next course of action America had painfully come to the conclusion that England was right; he needed someone to assume Carter's duties while he was unaccounted for. The problem was: who would it be?

Carter's work, however unobserved, was significant and often political, meaning that whomever took over his position had to be diplomatically minded, confident, and steadfast. Carter had been all of that and more, and while lacking in political gamesmanship, he'd always been very blunt and adept at sidestepping the smoke and mirrors. Truly, he was an ideal representative, opinionated, direct, fearless… his were going to be hard shoes to fill and, insofar, there was only one real option.

Lieutenant James C. Lane was just as blunt and patriotic as his superior was. He was older, a few years Carter's senior, experienced, and had his share of the battlefield. Furthermore, Carter trusted him, and that said more about his character than any file or report ever could. Not to mention he'd saved America's life.

America glanced about, searching for someone to deliver his message. The Underwood typewriter sat forgotten on its wobbly table. His eyes picked out a scrawny looking private guarding the door.

"You there!" He called.

"Yes sir?" The boy answered cautiously.

"I need you to find Lieutenant Lane and bring him here."

"Right away, sir." The private ambled off in search of the officer, leaving America once more to his thoughts.

There had been so many casualties in the last twenty-four hours. Three thousand, dead, wounded, or missing from Omaha Beach alone. It made his head spin. That was why he must continue on in Major Carter's absence. It wouldn't be right to focus solely on one man, no matter how much it pained him.

"General?" Lane saluted and waited for admittance into America's area, "You wanted me?"

"Yes, Lieutenant. Come in please," America returned the salute, all business for the moment, "There are things we need to discuss."

"Sir?" Lane prompted, clearly nervous and attempting to master it. America dropped the business-like façade immediately.

"You see, now that Major Carter is… gone, I must appoint someone else to manage things in his stead. He was my aide-de-camp see, and due to my… position, I'm afraid I cannot do without one," America surveyed Lane but the man remained impassive, professional, "I would like you to take over his duties." Lane's mouth opened in his shock and protest.

"Sir, I'm honored, but-

"Lieutenant," America said, cutting him off, "You are the only man for the job. Carter trusted you and by extension, so do I. Someone has to do it." That seemed to take the fight out of him. Lane looked downward, considering, and then glanced back up at him, a frown on his face.

"Let's say, hypothetically, that I accepted, what would the job entail?" America grinned. That was more like it.

"Well, for starters, you would assume command of Carter's company, temporarily of course, until we get him back," America counted on his fingers the duties he listed, "You would be expected to accompany me to meetings, both with SHAEF and the other generals of my… caliber, also you might have to represent me on occasion when delegates come calling or what-have-you, and of course the usual duties of an aide-de-camp." The lieutenant exhaled quickly. He, a man who'd always venerated officers like Eisenhower and Tedder, had never, in his wildest imaginings, pictured himself actually meeting them, let alone representing a general in a professional setting.

"Sir… that's an awful lot."

"Do you think you would be unequal to it?" Lane, eyes widening, rushed to correct himself.

"No, no, of course not. I'm just merely stating that it's a lot to place on someone like me, and the company? Sir, I cannot possibly take that from him."

"Someone has to assume command, Lane. And who better than his best friend? You've been helping him train them haven't you?"

"Yes, I have, but I'm just a lieutenant." America threw his blonde head back, laughing as though this were the simplest thing in the world.

"Well of course this would all come with advancement. I can't have a man of such low rank as my aide. You'd be promoted to Captain." Lane was rendered speechless.

"Sir, I-" he took a breath, "I don't want to disappoint you, but I would feel wrong about such good fortune when it comes at the misfortune of a good friend." America nodded, leaning back against his desk in a very unprofessional manner.

"I understand Lane, believe me I do, if there was another option I would take it. But this job is too big for me to do it on my own; I need an aide. I owe it to the men to be on my top game." Lane looked down at his boots. His heart screamed at him to refuse Jones' offer – Carter was his good friend, he couldn't just take his life away from him - but his head reminded him that if he didn't take the job then someone else, someone less trustworthy who didn't know Carter, would. And that would be equally, if not more, unfair. Besides, wouldn't Carter have wanted Lane to go on? Lane had as much duty as Jones to make sure their efforts were successful; it would be more immoral to let everything Carter had worked for go to waste. Not to mention their company needed a commander, and Lane was Carter's direct subordinate. The job would have fallen to him anyway.

"I'll do it, but only until we get Carter back." A bright, boyish grin came upon America's face and he clapped his hands together childishly.

"Wonderful! Thank you, Lieutenant. Though I suppose that title is outdated. From now on you are Captain James Lane. I'll amend the records first thing."

"Thank you, sir." Was all Lane could say. The general turned back to his desk were the unfinished condolence letter sat, his chipper mood immediately dampened.

"I don't suppose you're familiar with a Lawrence Carter are you?"

"No sir, Major Carter never discussed his family. At least not with me." America huffed.

"Figures. He never told me much of anything either. My God, four years and I know nothing about him except what's in this damn file!" In a burst of poignant anger he tossed the folder on the ground and put his head in his hands. Lane, on instinct, bent to retrieve it. He knew very little about Major Carter, other than his age and that he was a New Yorker. The man was incredibly private. In fact, it had taken excessive provocation and coercion before he even divulged his hometown. So, on impulse, Lane thumbed through Carter's relatively thin file. In it was only basic information, but it was certainly more than what Lane had.

"Huh, his middle name is Sylvester, who knew?" America coughed a little laugh.

"I have no idea what I'm going to tell them. How can I?"

"I'm not sure, sir," Said Lane, still rather uncomfortable with the whole situation, "I'd just start with the truth. Randall Carter was a brave man who went down fighting, his family should know that." America smiled, albeit a tad ruefully. The look in his eye was one of unsaid grief.

"Thanks Lane, I think I've got an idea now," He said, remembering the formalities, "Report back here at o'six-hundred, my fellow generals want to have a conference. You're dismissed."

"Yes sir," Lane said, and quietly excused himself, mind in a tailspin with all that had just transpired.

 **Strasbourg, France**

Major Carter's first impression of Strasbourg was that it was an incredibly German-looking town, for being a part of France. The majority of the buildings were of the half-timber variety and would have been quaint if not for the swastikas hanging at every turn and the army vehicles patrolling the streets. He watched the surroundings pass by with a mix of incredulity and melancholy. The world just wasn't the same anymore, and neither was he.

Slowly the lovely river-town faded and they entered a swath of green fields and rolling hills, so much like his own state that he almost wanted to cry. The last time he'd been home was in 1940. He wondered vaguely if his estate was being well cared for, if the horses were being properly tended to under his business associates' efficient hand and the wheat was all harvested. He had a lucrative business back home, and he be damned if that portion of his life was as bleak as the rest of it.

Hell, how long would it be until he saw home again?

"Get out, American. We're here" The officer snapped impatiently. Carter jolted. Lost in his thoughts he missed the thinning of the fields and the rise of the barbed wire. Over northward lay a sturdy half-timber mansion surrounded by barracks on one side and a small airfield, completely bereft of planes, on the other. In front of him stood the prison camp. The officer who'd escorted him thus far communicated briefly with the SS guard at the gate, exchanging 'Heil Hitler's' and the papers he'd carried since Paris. The black uniformed guard looked them over briefly before granting them admittance into the interior of the camp. Carter swallowed, his usual stern confidence faltering momentarily when the car door opened. One of the soldiers gave him a hard shove to get moving.

"This way." The officer, suddenly more foul tempered than before, jerked his head towards the most central edifice, two stories tall with a spire at the center. At the top, a scarlet Nazi banner fluttered in the breeze; it was the only piece of color in the entire compound. Carter cast his eyes over row upon row of shabby looking barracks, stretching perhaps four-hundred yards. The end was marked by the barbed wire fence which separated the camp from the airfield and the base further down. Every inch of it was patrolled by guards in black uniforms, looking stoic and harsh. Carter found this odd, for the SS generally served as an elite police force; this was a camp for POW's. The Wehrmacht should have been running it. He swallowed and stiffly followed the officer into the main building.

As it would happen, the interior was far more engaging than the exterior, almost inappropriately so. There were white walls and wood floors, portraits of Reich commanders, and curtains on the windows. Music emanated softly from another room, growing louder as they ventured further in. Mozart. Carter knew that melody anywhere, for it was one of his personal favorites. _Not anymore._

The ostentation made Carter aware of something very important: the décor, regardless of the swankiness, spoke volumes about the man in charge. Under his breath, Carter snorted derisively. _No wonder the barracks were so shabby…_ all of the cash was probably being siphoned off to fund someone's ritzy, bourgeois tastes.

"In here." The officer directed Carter through a thickly lacquered door. It was from here that the music emanated, a great black gramophone, its record nearly spent, took up the entirety of one end table. At the back of the room a man sat perched at a wide desk, his hands were occupied with lighting a cigarette but his narrowed, wolfish eyes focused on the party of Wehrmacht soldiers entering his domain.

The commandant.

From the outset, Carter could see he shared some resemblance to Germany in the color of his hair and eyes. But that was where the likeness ended. The way he glared at Carter, as if he were prey, indicated a brutality and disgust that was absolutely absent from Germany's air, not to mention he was probably at least two decades older. Though that was to be expected. This man was more than just a simple soldier, he was Allgemeine SS, judging from the patches and insignias and the red Nazi armband standing out in stark relief against his coal black uniform. Carter instinctively held his head a little higher. He would not give this Nazi bastard the satisfaction of easy compliance.

The commandant rose to address the officer who'd brought Carter in with a violent 'Heil Hitler.' The two briefly acknowledged each other, both holding themselves stiffly, until the Wehrmacht officer broke eye contact in order to get to the business at hand. Carter immediately honed in on the tension between them. The men of the Wehrmacht were no fans of the SS, so he'd been told.

"You are Major Randall Carter?" Said the commandant after reading the papers given to him by the other officer.

"Yes." The major answered icily. The commandant narrowed his eyes which, due to the proximity, Carter noticed were not blue, but in fact a piercing avian grey. He stared back with unmitigated disdain.

"Serial number?"

"Five thirty-two, five-oh, twenty-three ninety six." The commandant jotted down the information before blowing out a cloud of cigarette smoke into Carter's face. An arrogant flick of his head was all it took to dismiss the Wehrmacht officer and his men. They took their leave with grace, leaving the major at the mercy of the commandant and the two SS guards in the doorway. Carter swallowed, nervous and sweating, but he neither broke form nor eye contact with the other man, who stood a good six inches taller than him.

He was an American, and Americans did not back down.

"I am SS-Standartenführer Kraus, commandant of Stalag-IV, and for reasons I cannot imagine, you have been interned here." Carter bristled when Kraus looked him up and down, cigarette in hand. He couldn't put his finger on it, but something about this man instantly rankled him; the last thing he wanted to do was behave courteously.

"Believe me, there are plenty of places I'd rather be." Carter said on cocky impulse. The comment earned him a smack in the face. He licked the blood from his lip and turned his eyes back on Kraus, utterly and frighteningly calm.

"You are not on friendly territory anymore, American. Do not forget it." Kraus intoned. The brash, hotheaded part of Major Carter screamed at him to do something impertinent - and so he did.

"Kiss my Yankee ass." He said, slow, so the SS-man would be sure to hear every word. Fireworks exploded behind his eyes when the first blow cracked against Carter's mouth. It did little to move him, thereby angering Kraus further. He issued a second, this time bringing Carter eye level with his boots, so well-polished that his reflection was visible within them.

"Watch your tongue," Carter felt himself being pulled roughly to his feet, "Get him out of my sight." Then Kraus turned away. The silent rage etching itself in the fine lines around his stark grey eyes was cold enough to rival even that of Carter himself.

* * *

Dismal, in Randall Carter's opinion, was possibly the best word for Stalag IV. There was no life here, not one damn blade of grass or show of color in the entirety of the compound. It was like a massive crater, a blot on the verdant green landscape, as grey as Commandant Kraus' eyes, and for an American who'd always had nature at his fingertips, who'd seen life at its best and its worst, this was agonizing. Stalag IV could have been purgatory for all the joy there was to be found.

Despite his ill-at-ease, Carter followed the SS guards with a dutifulness that could only be described as robotic. Usually he was dissatisfied with being directed, but today proved to be too exhausting for him to question it. For now he would follow, and play by their rules until he knew the game; there was no sense in pissing people off any more than he already had. He had a feeling that there were far worse places to end up. Japan, for example.

The guards, apparently informed ahead of time where he was to be barracked, selected one of the more put together buildings and marched him inside. The barracks were set up much the same as they would be in any other military setting, with a bunks lining either side of the narrow space, each of which was occupied by a skinny looking soldier, many of whom bore officers' marks. Rapidly the fifty men or so filed into straight lines in front of their bunks, heads attuned to the SS guards and their charge. Some looked confused, others mildly bored, but either way it was deathly silent.

"Regarde! C'est un nouveau prisonnier de geurre!" Carter squinted in confusion. French? Why the hell were they speaking French? The rest was lost on Carter, for he knew little of the language other than what the Canadians shouted to each other on occasion, but he could tell that the guard was butchering it. The mix of German and French was utterly unpalatable to the ear and though the prisoners' faces betrayed nothing, Carter knew they were just as aware of it as he was.

The guard finished with a brusque word that sounded relatively cautionary and turned to leave.

"Wait a second, I think there's been some mistake here," Carter groused indignantly, "I'm not a Frenchman! I'm a New Yorker! What the hell am I doing here?" His answer was a backhanded blow that sent him stumbling. And then they were gone, leaving Carter with a hoard of confused looking prisoners who could neither make heads nor tails of the new arrival. Discomfort began to prickle at Carter's skin. What the hell was he supposed to say? Were there no other Americans here?

Fortunately, he was spared from wild gesticulation and heightened volume by a shockingly familiar voice.

"Mon ami, are you alright?" Carter jumped when a hand touched his shoulder and he found himself staring into a pair of familiar blue eyes. Like a cornered tiger he leapt backward, heart galloping out of control as his mind tried to determine if the person before him was in fact real and not a figment of his frazzled brain. _No… it couldn't be._ But it was. Carter was not imagining the golden hair, the sensual features, the dreamy look in his eyes, bluer than the sky on a cloudless day. He couldn't believe it.

"France?"

 **Normandy, France**

"You're leaving?" Rommel's voice was full to the brim with accusation. Fingers tented, he glared at Germany across the desk. The air in the room was suddenly stifling; it reminded Germany of when he was a petulant child, being scolded by his father, or worse yet: his brother. Certainly he'd seen the Desert Fox like this before, but never had his ire been directed at Germany personally; it was all at once, very humbling and very frightening, "I need you here."

"Please, Herr Rommel, this is a matter of vital importance."

"And what matter is that?" He enunciated each venomous syllable with a precision that any good German would endeavor to achieve; it made Germany cringe with guilt. He hated to do this, in fact he had deliberated it all night, but something in his gut told him that this was the right course of action. He must pursue it.

"Yesterday, during the invasion, we captured an American officer, a major."

"There were many officers captured, what difference does it make?" Rommel said harshly, losing control of his patience and his volume.

"This man is different, you must understand, he had," Germany looked over his shoulder to make sure the door was tightly shut, "He had abilities _._ Like mine." Rommel's eyebrows shot up.

"A country?"

"No, not a country - I would have recognized him – but he's definitely… something."

"And this something justifies your leaving the front?" Germany looked at his boots, conflicted and detesting himself for what he must do, although at this point he couldn't rightfully undo it. He'd already bypassed the typical regulations for taking prisoners; Major Carter had gone directly to a Stalag prison camp instead of passing through the holding camps as any other POW would.

"Yes, I believe it does." Rommel sat back down with a heavy sigh.

"Beilschmidt, I brought you here for a reason, and that reason was to help me defend Normandy. Now that the fight has come to us you're going to leave? Forgive me if I do not understand your motivation."

"I know how it might appear, but this American… I believe that if I can get the information from him it could turn the tables on the Allies," Germany sighed, "I am the only one who can do this." A long pause.

"As reluctant as I am to let you go, I doubt there is anything I can do to stop you" Rommel conceded gruffly, "At least tell me what you think we are dealing with."

"I'm afraid I do not know at the current time. However, I swear to keep you posted of any and all developments, furthermore I can still offer assistance from Strasbourg."

"I would insist that you did," Rommel eyed Germany pointedly, "You're a valuable asset on the front."

"Danke, Herr Rommel." He responded with a brusque nod and moved to stand in front of the window. Outside looked as cold and unforgiving as Rommel's grey office.

"So if this man is not a country, then what is he?"

"I have reason to believe he is one of America's states."

"Truly?"

"It is the only other plausible explanation."

"And how do you propose to obtain information from him?" Germany frowned; this was the difficult part.

"It is my understanding that there are regulations preventing the states from participating in active duty, just like those that govern countries. Currently, the states are prohibited from direct involvement in war efforts; this has been in effect since 1865." Rommel hummed to show his understanding. Germany was not supposed to divulge any of this, but he could not leave his comrade clueless, it just wasn't right, "If I am correct, this man is in violation of American law, and the Geneva Convention protects neither states nor lawbreakers. I am within my rights to use whatever means necessary to extract information."

"Indeed," Rommel fixed him with a steady gaze. The both of them knew what was entailed in 'whatever means necessary;' Americans were tough and proud, and this one would undoubtedly be the toughest and proudest of them all, "Then I suppose you had better get started. I expect to hear from you soon."

"Of course, I shall contact you as soon as I know something. This state cannot hold out forever." Germany offered a parting handshake and exited Rommel's office, intent on getting to Strasbourg before the American had a chance to get too comfortable.

 **Strasbourg, France**

"Pardon moi, monsieur, but have we met?" France sat back on his heels, taken aback by the manner in which he'd been received. The American's storm blue eyes were the size of dinner plates as he scrambled backward. From this angle France observed his unkempt appearance, the blood on his clothing and the sand in his hair. The man was young, for his face was still slender with youth, but his eyes had a timeless quality that transcended mere physical appearance. Those were the eyes of a man who had seen much more than he should have in his years _._

 _He must have just come from the front._ France decided. Which meant that the Allies were finally invading. His heart leapt with joy at the notion. The coming of this American was like the harkening of springtime, and now that France was really looking, he found that he did recognize the man. He reminded him of America, but there was something else too. Something that he just couldn't quite put his finger on.

"Yes, we have," If France was seeing right, the American appeared imploring and almost a little affronted, but it was the use of his country's name that shocked him, "Don't you remember?"

"I think you might be mistaken. And how do you know who I am?"

"Goddammit France, it's me!" With his hackles rose his volume and pitch. This time it was France's turn to take a step back. Behind him, he could feel his fellow POWs turning concerned eyes on him and the American whom, as of yet, had not revealed his identity.

"Mon ami, I am sorry, but I'm afraid I don't know you." The American's face fell in disbelief and… hurt? France couldn't understand it. Granted he looked familiar, but France couldn't place him in any specific memory, "Please, what is your name?" France winced at the tempest arising on the man's face. That intensity, the silent, raging typhoon, he knew it all. But from where? The man licked his dry lips, eyes glinting dangerously. In a low whisper he said:

"My name is Randall Carter, but once you knew me as New York."


	5. A Ready Conspiracy

**Chapter V: A Ready Conspiracy**

 **January 20** **th** **, 1931**

 **Brooklyn, New York**

 _"_ _Holy shit." I approached the mirror carefully, or rather, the man looking back at me. I waved my arm. He waved back. I twitched my brow. He twitched his right back at me. He was me, and yet not me at all._

 _Randall Carter. My alias._

 _"_ _You're quite the preener." Louie's face appeared next to mine, smarmy grin in full swing, "I think I did a pretty bang-up job."_

 _"_ _Don't flatter yourself D.C." I was too transfixed to think of a smarter insult. Randall Carter smiled, as if inviting me to lose myself in his shining, American blue eyes, his perfect white teeth, his handsome face. Me, and yet not me. It was utterly unnerving, "Jesus Christ. I look like you."_

 _Indeed, our colors were similar before, but now we could have been brothers._

 _"_ _You say that like it's a bad thing." He pouted. In the mirror I narrowed my eyes. Coming from me it would have been good natured, but from Randall Carter, it was terrifying. He was the type of man who could chew you up, spit you back out and walk away like nothing happening. I reverted back to a neutral façade, but it wasn't much better._

 _"_ _You tell me." Louis stroked his mustache lightly, considering._

 _"_ _Well, as long as no one gets wind that we're in cahoots you should be fine. I'll have your correspondence sent to your residence in Schenectady, if anyone questions your story just show them your papers. Airtight. I forged them personally. In all sincerity, this just might work." He answered in his coldly rational lawyer's voice. I nodded, if I blew my cover it was over. Louis couldn't protect me if they knew I wasn't a man._

 _"_ _Understood." Randall Carter looked like any other soldier I'd seen in the field: steadfast and sure._

 _I could do this._

 _"_ _Good luck, Romana." Louis extended his hand as a gesture of peace and we shook for the last time. I did not know when next I might see him._

 _"_ _Thank you, Louie, I owe you one." He chuckled, shaking his fine, brown head._

 _"_ _Oh no, New York, where you're going, I'd say it's me that owes you."_

* * *

 **June 7** **th** **, 1944**

 **Strasbourg France**

I watched with wounded pride as the consternation on France's face melted into horror. He didn't recognize me. France, of all people, didn't recognize me. Sure, it had been over a decade, but a person doesn't just forget an old flame. _Should'a known Carter, should'a known._

"Jesus, France you're scaring me. Snap out of it before you pop an artery." I whacked him lightly on the cheek when he started turning the color of a boysenberry, "Relax, will you? It ain't like I sprouted a third arm." The ungainliness of the situation brought out the worst of my accent but my temper was too short for me to care much. If he carried on like this everybody in the damn compound would think something fishy was going on, and while he should have seen through my guise, the rest of them had no business knowing about it.

"Romana? But… how? Why? I thought it was against the law for states to come here." He stumbled over his words, quite an uncharacteristic occurrence for a suave, sweet-talking Froggy like himself. I took a breath, conscious of the impatient frown curdling my neutrality.

"It _is_ against the law. But I wasn't just going to dink around watching the grass grow while America goes to war." I replied briskly and started walking. Hopefully he would get the message before we attracted undue attention with all this hush-hush nonsense.

"But how on earth have you accomplished this? Fooled everyone?" He moved quickly in order to keep up, but I offered him little acknowledgement in favor of maintaining my stoicism.

"With difficulty," France led me to an unoccupied bunk where I sat, suddenly very weary. He perched on the one opposite, "Louie helped fix me up and then forged me some phony papers. He has connections with a few of the army physicians and I got in down south with the 1st division. After that I just flew under the radar, until the war started and America noticed me. I've been his aide-de-camp since '41"

"You served your own country as an aide-de-camp? Did he know it was you?" I looked up from beneath my brow irritably.

"You think I'd be here if he did?"

"Mon dieu, Romana," France was shaking his head, "He must be insane."

"Not any more than you are." I fired back, earning a self-conscious wince.

"Your disguise is masterful, New York." He murmured by way of excuse.

"Yeah, well, you'd be surprised just how blind people get when war lands right on their doorstep. Boy, oh boy," I shook my head in rueful mockery, "Japan really stepped in it with that one" He nodded. Everyone had heard about Pearl Harbor.

"So what's the situation around here? Shouldn't they have me bunked with the other Americans?" France sat back with dramatic breath.

"I am sure they would if there were any other Americans." That sure got my attention.

"What?"

"You are the only American here," France rubbed his whiskery chin contemplatively, "What exactly were the circumstances of your arrest?"

"We got pinned down, America was injured, and I went to draw the Germans off," I took a breath, entwining my fingers under my chin, "They took me to Germany when there was nowhere left to go. I gave 'em quite the run for their money." France exhaled, shaking his head.

"No wonder they took you here," He said, "The base over there is Germany's personal headquarters, and it is safe to say that you are now being held, as I am, for reasons of political advantage."

"You think he knew it was me?"

"Non, if America didn't recognize you then you can rest assured that no European country will. Do not be scared, Romana." I fixed him with a glare.

"You think I'm scared?"

"Right," He said, humbled, "I apologize."

"Doesn't matter," I flicked my head sideways, "But enough about me. What the hell are you doing here? I figured they had you holed up in Paris." Now was it was his turn to huff. He crossed his arms petulantly, but his eyes belied an impassioned outrage.

"The SS attempted to liquidate all of the spies passing information in Paris. When they suspected that someone under my command was participating in espionage activity I assumed the guilt and they took me instead. Germany has had me bouncing from prison to prison since then."

"Huh, well I'll be damned. I wouldn't a thought you had it in you." France looked hurt for a moment, though I couldn't tell if it was genuine or just more of his dramatics. Either way, I squared my shoulders in preparation for his swift riposte.

"Now what is that supposed to mean?" His tone was mild and teasing and I knew to return his foxy grin with a small, stiff one of my own; it wasn't easy, "Romana? Are you alright?" He inquired suddenly. There was consternation in his voice, and misplaced concerned.

"Peachy-keen, and you can't keep calling me that while we're in here. It's Major Carter. Don't forget it." The threat was mild, but it was still a threat. Thirteen years dealing with all manner of asshole taught you how to make a point and make it good. By now I was a real goddamned master. France opened his mouth, closed it again, and returned in a cautious tone.

"You have my word Rom-" He paused, correcting himself, "…Major Carter. Besides, I am the only one of my countrymen who speaks English. You are perfectly safe."

"Safe," I scoffed, "Not the first word that comes to mind."

"Did you meet the commandant?"

"I did, as a matter of fact. Son of bitch gave me this." I gestured to my black eye before it went away. France had the audacity to look at me in pity as I did so, like I was some kind of martyr, "Relax France, I can take it." I asserted when offense began to creep into my gut. France took a breath, imploring concern coloring his features.

"But why, New York, why? You don't need to do this. I cannot stand seeing you injured."

"Well you'd better get used to it." I said harshly, "This is how things are now France and if you don't like it then tough shit."

He recoiled, blue eyes wide and confused, with rejection, with alarm, I didn't care to find out. The last thing I wanted was his sentiment. Sentiment wouldn't save Europe, sentiment wouldn't liberate his country, and sentiment sure as hell wouldn't get us out of here. With a parting frown I laid back in my bunk and shut my eyes. Whatever was coming, I'd need my strength for it. There was no time to worry about hurting someone's feelings.

* * *

 **June 8** **th** **, 1944**

"Germany!" The high-pitched, excitable voice of his Italian ally was the first thing to assault Germany's frayed nerves as soon as he stepped out of his automobile. Kemmerich, one of his subordinates, sighed in exasperation. The Italian in question waved eagerly from the doorstep, a large smile plastered on his face and hazel eyes sparkling as if the world could do no wrong, as if it were as bright and innocent as he. Germany frowned. He disliked when others were so oblivious, although in Italy he forgave it; it was his nature and Germany was simply too tired to reprimand him for it. He'd traveled all night to get here, and even then his chauffeur had been forced to take detours when convoys came through, thereby lengthening the trip from Normandy to Strasbourg by several hours. The long drive combined with the knowledge that every hour he tarried the Allies gained further purchase on the continent was a recipe for ultimate distress.

"Vargas." He greeted him with a nod, stark and cold to an Italian, but a mark of respect to a German.

It had been nearly three months since Germany left and clearly Italy was delighted to have him back. After embracing him quickly he began jabbering on animatedly, half in Italian, half in German, and a smattering of English, while Germany only partially listened, agreeing with him when it was appropriate. Indeed, it was refreshing to be in the presence of someone whose outlook was enthusiastic instead of dour, and Germany, for once, was glad that he'd taken part in Operation Eiche a year ago, rescuing Italy, his awful brother, and his ignoramus of a leader from the encroaching Allies.

"I am so glad that you are back! There is nothing to do here!" Italy bounced along beside him as he made his way swiftly from the front entryway to his office on the second floor, sparing little more than a glance for his subordinates.

"Italy, please, contain yourself. There is work to be done."

"But Germany, I just made dinner! Surely you can spare time for that, it has been ages!"

"It is seven in the morning." He deadpanned. Even after all these years, Italy's behavior still managed to shock him, and though it wasn't quite as vexing anymore, it remained incredibly unconducive to a productive military environment. Germany had gone through hell and back to train him up and still he was no more suited to a professional setting than a fish to a tree. It was one of his more discouraging moments.

The familiar surroundings of Strasbourg were comforting to Germany on a certain level. The Alsace region was calm and green and rustic and it reminded him too much of home. In spite of the military presence, the allure of peace-time beckoned every time he looked out the window or went for his morning exercise in the sweet smelling air. It was for this reason that he'd established his headquarters here instead of elsewhere, even at the disapproval of his colleagues. They much preferred the buzzing activity and authority offered by Tiergartenstrasse, but city life in the thick of the bureaucracy held only limited appeal for Germany. He was a man of uncomplicated tastes – though he would be loath to admit it to his compatriots – and regardless of the advantages of Berlin, he would stubbornly remain here. At least until the Allies broke the defensive lines.

"Italy, there are things we must discuss," He said after reoccupying his tall desk chair, "Please. Sit." Italy cocked his head quizzically but, sensing Germany's grave tone, did as he was commanded, expression serious for once.

"What is it, Germany?"

"The Allies invaded Normandy two days ago," Italy gasped, "They now have established themselves on the coast."

"What? No! That's impossible!" Before he could jump out of his seat Germany held up a hand for silence.

"There is a silver lining." Italy's eyes glistened with rare hope, "We captured an Allied officer, and I suspect that he is one of America's states."

"A state?"

"I know that you have had dealings with them in the past, I had hoped that you might be able to assist me with the interrogation." This time no gesture by Germany could contain Italy as he leapt to his feet and clapped his hands together childishly.

"Of course, Germany, anything!"

"Wunderbar, I wish to get started as soon as possible. Rommel is expecting information."

"What would you have me do?"

"I will handle most of the questioning; however, I would like you to kick things off. This man, if he is a state, is not protected under the Geneva Convention and if he is as intelligent as he is bold he will be well aware of that. I want to see if you can get anything out of him before we turn to more drastic measures." Italy nodded vigorously. In spite of his naïveté he was well aware of the 'measures' to which Germany referred; he would do what he could to spare this man from all of that.

"What is he like? Perhaps I know him?"

"Perhaps," Germany concurred, "He is very American."

"What else?" Italy prompted, making Germany roll his eyes. He stood and went to the window.

"See for yourself." Italy followed. From here they had a perfect view of the center of the compound where the POW's were assembled for morning roll call. Kraus stalked along the line, a raven among wrens.

"Which one is he?" Germany squinted but found that it was not necessary. A series of raised voices, one much higher than the other, cut the quiet of the camp and Kraus reeled back and punched one of the prisoners squarely on the jaw. He went down like a sack of potatoes.

"That's him."

"Oh my, he and the commandant must have gotten off on the wrong foot."

"It would appear as such." He said lowly. That was not a good thing. As Germany knew from personal experience, Kraus was the last person you wanted for an enemy. He was intelligent, proud, and vengeful, and his philosophy regarding corporal punishment was significantly more liberal than Germany found healthy.

"Germany look." Italy pointed back toward the compound, "He's getting up."

"Mein Gott, so he is." Germany felt an unbidden sense of respect rise up in him for Major Carter as the man picked himself up from the dirt and stared back at Kraus defiantly, "Feliciano, we have our work cut out for us."


	6. Missing in Action

**Chapter VI: Missing in Action**

 **June 8** **th** **, 1944**

 **Strasbourg, France**

"Beilschmidt."

"Kraus." Germany addressed the commandant coldly. He held no fondness for the draconic SS officer, nor for the entirety of the SS ranks, if he were being honest. They were arrogant, and fanatical, and even though Germany was an ardent supporter of the Third Reich he found their enthusiasm overbearing and rather frightening.

"Do you have the prisoner?"

"My men are retrieving him now." Kraus said airily, adjusting his black officers' cap. The hair beneath it resembled hoar frost, it was so heavily mixed with gray, and it caused an up swell of self-righteous vanity in Germany, who, despite all his years, maintained his youth, "I do not like him."

"I doubt you would." They spoke without looking at each other, choosing instead to stand side by side, each trying to appear taller and more put-together than the other. Germany liked to think he was winning, but Kraus's cold unflappability undercut his sense of victory.

Behind them a step stood Italy, for his authority in this place was nil, thereby relegating him to a subordinate position. He fidgeted, though Germany supposed that any amount of fidgeting was preferable to his usual chatter. Even so, the imposition of a tag-a-long was quickly rankling Kraus' already foul disposition. Germany watched the crow's feet about his eyes deepen as the minutes passed by until it seemed he was peering out through slits.

"At last." Kraus said. A chorus of protests heralded the arrival of the two SS guards and their charge: a thrashing, indignant American held nearly aloft between them. As they came closer, a fresh welt made itself evident, bisecting Major Carter's sweaty, dirty, blood-encrusted face. A mark from a riding crop. Germany frowned deeply.

It was no secret that he, a Wehrmacht commander, had very little control of the goings-on at Stalag IV. It began when France was arrested and the Führer insisted that the SS take control of his imprisonment. Germany received no consultation or warning, and, in fact, it was in complete disregard of international wartime law that the Führer proceeded. If a country was conquered it fell to the conqueror – in this case, Germany himself - to see to their detainment. The Führer had walked all over that particular provision, and Germany was none too thrilled about it. _He must have some larger goal in mind_.

"Bring him here." He ordered. Major Carter lifted his battered head high, surveying Germany with a fervid loathing.

"Hello there!" Italy, having stayed silent for as long as he could handle, burst forth with his usual verboseness, causing the American's head to snap suddenly in his direction. Had Germany wished initially to gauge Major Carter's reaction to the other country he would have been thoroughly satisfied with the results. The man was thunderstruck, to put it lightly. His lips were drawn back in horror, his posture tensed, and his eyes wide with recognition. Germany and Kraus exchanged a look.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Major Carter ground out through clenched teeth. The statement was reactionary, not a thought out response, and Germany narrowed his eyes to disguise a triumphant smile. _He knew Italy!_

"Vargas, have you ever met this man before?" Germany queried, a might smugly. Italy opened and closed his mouth, brow creased, before approaching the captive.

It didn't take a genius to understand that the two men were as different from each other as night was from day; however, their polar personalities did nothing to refute the physical likeness. Even through the blood and grime and simmering resentment, their profiles were strikingly similar. Carter had Italy's straight nose and expressive eyes, storm blue rather than warm brown. Even the shape of his mouth was indicative of Italian blood. But that was where the similarities ended. The rest of him was utterly American; the rest of him was Jones.

Italy leaned in closer until he was nearly nose to nose with Major Carter, looking at him intently with a child's curiosity. The man in question barely breathed.

"No, I do not." Germany pursed his lips and said nothing for a moment, considering.

"Fine then," He murmured tonelessly, "This way."

The room in which they conducted questioning was windowless and soundproof. It was situated in the center of the main command center with white walls and a table and chairs to accommodate its occupants. Brutal efficiency. Just to Germany's taste.

"Commandant, I thank you for your assistance, but I will take it from here." Kraus snapped his head Germany's way.

"General, this man is imprisoned in my camp. I reserve the right to be present during the interrogation." Germany narrowed his eyes. He would have none of this, not with this prisoner. Kraus had managed to insert himself into every high-profile interrogation that Germany had ever undertaken in this compound and he would be damned if he had to indulge him this time. It was imperative to the Wehrmacht that he get what he could out of this man while the chance presented itself, and he could not accomplish anything short of that with Kraus present. He was violent and belligerent and most importantly, he knew nothing of the true nature of international politics. By law, Germany could not disclose his true identity, or that of any other country, to a man who lacked government authorization to receive such information, and Kraus, most certainly, was not authorized.

"With all due respect, Commandant, I will conduct this interrogation on my terms. This man was arrested by the Wehrmacht and under Wehrmacht authority he shall remain." Without waiting for a reply, Germany performed an 'about face' and followed the screaming, obscenity-hurling procession, comprised solely of a single man, to the place they would be conducting their business. All the while he felt the furious heat of Kraus's gaze on his back, which he heartily ignored, until the door was shut.

Major Carter was shoved unceremoniously into a chair where made a big show of righting his tattered, filthy uniform and flicking the equally filthy hair from his forehead. His eyes, the only part of him not covered in a layer of grime, were as turbulent as the English Channel. They fixed on Germany with a proud contempt as the two SS guards were dismissed. He was putting on airs, goading him. Germany didn't know whether to be offended or impressed.

"Now then, I do not like to beat about the bush, so I will ask you directly: Who are you?" If the Major was caught off guard he did not show it.

"You know who I am."

"I know who you are pretending to be." Germany said flatly, "I want the truth, American."

"I am not required to tell you anything more than what I already have." His voice shifted from the casual American slang into the decisive, warning tones of an officer.

"It is time to drop the act!" Germany let his fist drop with a bang. Major Carter's reaction was instantaneous. He was out of his chair and head to head with Germany in a half a second, shoulders wrenched back defiantly. Italy, too, was brought into the fray, flitting about the perimeter in an attempt to diffuse the situation. Fruitless, however, were his efforts; neither of them were the type to back down, "Tell me, who are you really?"

"I'm the man who's gonna bring down the temple, you Kraut son-of-a-bitch."

Germany hit him so hard he felt the bones in his hand shift. Major Carter was sent sprawling, his broken nose dribbling red down his chin. He held his face reflexively, but what little fear and surprise that sparked in his eye was overpowered by intense hatred. To say Germany was unnerved would have been rather an understatement, but he pushed it aside and approached the dirty, bleeding officer, planted a boot on his chest and leaned down hard. Carter squirmed and writhed as he was pressed into the floor.

"Germany!" Italy cried in protest. He flew to his friend's side like a startled canary, yanking at Germany's arm with all the force of an underweight dachshund. In the manner of an aggravated owner, Germany merely brushed him off. Major Carter had to understand the danger posed by a man with little left to lose. _Besides_ , Germany thought, idle threats were of no use here, they must be preceded and reinforced by action.

"There is no Geneva Convention to protect you here. I know you are a state," Major Carter drew his lips back in a snarl as he wheezed and sputtered. Germany increased the pressure on his sternum until the dry crack of his ribs snapping split the air. Carter cried out - a low, throaty noise - and grasped at his leg, "I swear, I will do whatever is necessary to get you to speak, so for your own sake you will cooperate with me." Germany shoved against him once more and moved off, leaving the American to cough and clutch his chest. The horror on Italy's face as he clapped his hands over his mouth was almost enough to make Germany regret his actions. Almost. But it had to be done. For the sake of the Reich, it must.

"I don't know what you're damn-well talking about!" Another blow to the face left his already fractured nose bent gruesomely to the side. Carter's eyes watered as the beginning of a nasty bruise leached its way outward from the center of his face and under his eyes. He wiped the blood away from his mouth, but the flow was too heavy for it to matter much; the bottom half of his face was already coated in red.

"Do not lie to me. I know you are more than you appear to be - I saw it!" Carter recoiled at that, for the first time since the interrogation began, the manic light of true fear sparked in his eye, "I will say it again: who are you?"

But the American rallied in spite of everything.

"You'll have to kill me first. I'll die before I tell you anything!" The force behind his declaration made Germany take an involuntary step backward. He had always known states were tough, but the sheer conviction in his words sent shivers down his spine. It had an effect on Italy as well. He looked to Germany, mouth open, and then back at Major Carter who swayed as he picked himself up. Once he was on his feet he stood erect, chin high and back straight, with the steady bearing of a lord. With injuries, new and old, and the blood all over his ravaged, war-torn body, he resembled something out of the Old Testament.

Fury swept over Germany in a hot wave. _Who did he think he was?_

"Do have any idea what will happen to you if you do not cooperate?" He demanded, desperate now, "I have no wish to put an end to a state, but believe me when I say my purpose is no less than yours. I will kill you, if necessary."

"Do it then. I dare you." Major Carter said in a ragged voice. His cutting blue eyes scrutinized Germany with an arrogance to rival that of Italy's awful brother, while his mouth pulled back in an awful crimson smile.

"You are a fool." Germany let him go and, in his disbelief, retreated a step. Major Carter just watched him warily, a hand on his broken ribs, "You will die in here, don't you understand that? I know you are a state, if you comply, I can grant you amnesty."

"Think I care? You're not gettin' a thing from me." He said lowly. Germany looked at him hard, trying and failing to put a name to his blood-stained face. He was certain he had never met this state before – whomever he was. He would have remembered.

A long moment passed in which the two men simply regarded each other, willing someone to bend. But none did. Germany would get nothing from the American this day and they both knew it.

Germany barked an order. The two SS men at the door materialized by his side, "Take him back to the barracks." They did as ordered, and soon all that was left of their debacle of an interrogation was a Carter's blood on the floor and the gloomy cloud hanging in the air. Neither Germany nor Italy knew quite what to say, for there were few words that would suit the situation. "That was vile." Italy said at last.

"That is war." He answered tonelessly.

"I thought that you wanted me to handle it."

"He did not respond to you earlier, he will not now."

"Then why did you make me stay?" Italy demanded in an explosion of volume. Germany turned to him at once, shocked by his outburst, "I am your friend Germany and I will follow you as long as I am able, through thick and thin, but do not ask me to play witness to this! I won't do it!"

Germany felt his mouth open and close of its own volition. Italy never talked back to him. Never. But this time he had, whether by accident or design, and it was grounds for pause. Germany felt suddenly very guilty. He hadn't intended for it to go so far. There was a certain level of battlefield decorum which Germany tried at all times to obey. It was blasphemous to his principles to treat a prisoner, let alone an officer, in such an egregious manner, but he was left with little a choice. Rommel and the rest of the men on the Western Front were relying on him to bring them inside information on the Allies plan of attack; he could not afford to show mercy

"Italy, I-" His throat closed in on itself. He had to swallow before he could speak again, "Forgive me… for putting you in such a position. It was not my intent." The accusing glare of his naïve, albeit infallible ally softened a tad. Italy looked downward at the floor, then at Major Carter's bloody handprint on the wall.

"It should not have come to this." Italy murmured, earning a tired breath from Germany.

"What choice do we have? The Allies are coming, I cannot afford to let this opportunity pass us by. Surely you can see that!"

"I do, Germany. But is this not going too far? America will not like that you have tortured on of his states."

"Now you listen to me Italy. That state is in violation of his own laws. Even if this does get back to America, there is no path of recourse."

"Would it not be easier to hold him for ransom? The mafia do it all the time!" Germany shook his head.

"We are not the mafia, Italy," He chided good-naturedly, "He has broken federal regulation - the Americans would sooner declare him a traitor than claim responsibility for a runaway state. And in any case, I need the Führer's approval if I am to negotiate with the Allies."

"That is insane."

"Italy…" He cautioned. The last thing he needed was for Italy to unintentionally slander the Führer and implicate the both of them. Kraus would be ever so pleased, "Come, we shall try again tomorrow. Major Carter cannot hold out forever."


	7. Accountability

**Chapter VII – Accountability**

 **June 8** **th** **, 1944**

 **Strasbourg, France**

A night in a POW camp is a lot like one in basic training, except with all of the dread and none of the anticipation. At least in basic you could look forward to the end. This was interminable. I had no idea how long they'd keep me here, if it would be months, or even years, but the thing I did know was that I'd be sitting out the war here and that was the worst thing about it. I would rather die in the mud with my men then lay around at the mercy of Germany's finest. This was about as painful a thing for a man as could be imagined. But it didn't stop there.

My head was in a goddamn cyclone, both from the blows and the pretty little bombshell Germany'd dropped on me. I'd put on a brave face and grit my teeth through the pain, but goddammit I was scared shitless.

Germany knew I was a state - there was no reason to mince words. Clearly he didn't know which one yet, but logically there weren't that many of us to choose from. How long would it be until he figured the rest of it out? And with Italy here now too… It wasn't looking good.

We used to be good friends, Italy and I. It seemed like a lifetime ago. But seeing him now, here – of all places – had almost made me slip. He hadn't changed one bit. Through it all, his good nature, his kindness, his unconditional goodwill had remained. On one level it was heartening to know that some things were unshakeable, but I had to wonder how sheltered he'd had to be to come away with all his kindness intact. War changed you. Turned you cold. It was just part of the job.

There was a collective gasp when I stumbled my way back to the barracks. The guards dumped me off, bleeding and discombobulated, in the middle of the place without a second glance. I had to pick my way through a throng of curious Frenchmen who hadn't a clue what to do, and practically crawl my way through camp. Now I was on my knees, wheezing and half-dead, in the doorway of our shabby building with my pride hanging by a thread.

One by one the POW's were drawn to all the noise I was making. Alarm was heady in the air, but once again it was France who became the ambassador for their collective concern. He appeared like a damn white knight, all righteousness and charm, with his ridiculous caped uniform billowing around his shoulders. I barely had the wherewithal to hate him for it.

"Mon Dieu, Romana. What have they done to you?" He reached out to touch the painful welt above my brow, but I would have none of it. I jerked my head back.

"Just give me a hand will you?"

"Romana-"

"Didn't I tell you not to call me that?" He ignored the statement, bending over to help me to my feet with one hand on my arm and the other on my waist. I focused on keeping my face stony and impassive despite the torturous crunching in my chest.

"New York, who did this to you?" He said once I eased myself into a prone position.

"Tall, blonde, real bad with the girls. Ring a bell?"

"The commandant?"

"No, France, not the commandant," I said, "Germany."

"I will kill him for this." His animosity struck me, for his words were fierce and violent and full of a passion that I'd not heard in a long time. I gave him a long, appraising look. In his gaze was the same romanticism I remembered from such long time ago, when things hadn't been so damn complicated. Unfortunately, it failed to move me as it might've once. All I could dredge up was rather a lukewarm ruefulness _. I could break you._ I thought.

"Don't be an idiot. There's no need for the both of us to get roughed up." It was his turn to regard me with disbelief when I laboriously wiped the blood from my face, "And quit looking at me like that. This is my job."

"Romana, what happened to you?"

"Bastard busted me up good, that's what happened." I said, only half listening. The rest of my attention was on finding the exact break in my nose. When I did, I placed my middle and index fingers on either side and pressed hard until I heard it pop back into place. The pain was blinding, "Goddamn."

"That is not what I mean." I exhaled quickly. Of course that's not what he meant.

"What do you want from me here France?" I turned to him exasperatedly. On any other day my patience would have held longer, but I was tired and in pain and I knew exactly where he was going with this line of questioning. The last thing it would elicit from me was goodwill. I didn't want to hear it.

"I want to know what happened to the girl I once knew!" Perhaps under some past illusion of affection, France crossed over from his bunk to mine and clasped my hands in his. His eyes searched me, imploring and falsely passionate, like a flower whose aroma had grown sickly with age. Very calmly, in the tone I reserved for the most insolent of recruits, I said:

"I outgrew her."

Slowly he let go of my hands and sat back a ways. I held steady. A small, forgotten part of me knew I should feel remorse or at the very least, reproach. But my heart was silent while the soldier who rested there, Randall Carter, kept it coldly in check. I looked at France, once a heartthrob of mine, and felt nothing.

"I… understand," _No you don't_ , "Forgive me. I just thought that-

"That what? That it'd be just like the old days?" I glanced off a ways, "Those are long gone. We have bigger things to worry about now." The hurt in his eyes inclined me to rescind my statement, but my resolve stood fast. I would never go back to the old days, _no sir'ee._

"I will bring you some water." He moved off, head down in confusion and most likely disappointment while I shrugged out of my field jacket as best I could without aggravating things too much. My crushed ribs would be good-as-new by morning, my face even sooner. I just had to hunker down for a while and rest - my body, that is. My mind stayed on overdrive all through the night.

* * *

 ** _May 15_** ** _th_** ** _, 1863_**

 ** _Schenectady, New York_**

 _"_

 _Alfred, thank God." I murmured, dashing down the hill towards the procession of filthy, exhausted Union soldiers. My skirts dirtied immediately, but I did not care. I scanned back and forth, seeking out America's familiar form and gait from among the officers, all of whom looked as wretched as the men they led. America was not exempt. No longer was he the broad, healthy, bright-eyed young man I recalled. What I encountered instead was a fatigued, skinny youth who looked ready to collapse at the slightest gust of wind. Nevertheless, he lengthened his stride and embraced me heartily. A gesture which I returned, uncaring for the mud or the lice that he carried with him._

 _"_ _It's good to see you, New York." He said it and meant it, and I could only nod, shutting my eyes against the anguish that rose up in me at the sight of him. When he let go of me, I turned to address the officers._

 _"_ _Everything here is at your disposal. Please, make yourselves at home." They nodded, too tired to do anything else, and waved their men forward, up the hill, and towards the field where they would set up camp. I could only watch in growing horror as they passed by._

 _The majority of them could not have been any older than eighteen, but already, the harsh scrawl of war had been written all over them. I could see it in their gaunt, haunted faces; their shambling march; the slump of their shoulders beneath the heavy packs and rifles. It was even worse among the injured - there were disfigured faces and missing limbs, eyes blank with battlefield madness._

 _"_ _My God…" America, to my left, made a noise of dark concurrence._

 _"_ _This isn't even the half of it. We had to abandon several on the road to save supplies. They couldn't be helped," This, I think, he said more to himself than to me._

 _"_ _Oh, Alfred. I'm sorry."_

 _"_ _Don't be. Can't… help us now."_

 _I knew something was wrong when he swayed unsteadily on his feet, nearly hitting me. I put my hands on his shoulders to steady him._

 _"_ _Alfred? Are you alright?" He managed a single nod before his eyes rolled back into his head and he fell into me like a bag of meal, "Help! Please, he needs help! Somebody!"_

 _My shouting proved unnecessary. The three officers leading the contingent and an older man I knew to be a medic came running immediately, identical expressions of the utmost alarm coloring their gaunt features. The medic knelt at my side, his weathered, practiced hands going immediately to America's throat, seeking a pulse._

 _"_ _What happened?" He demanded brusquely._

 _"_ _I don't know! He just collapsed!"_

 _"_ _General Jones? Can you hear me?" The medic lightly slapped America's pale, hollow cheeks, "He's feverish. We have to get him indoors. I can see to him better there. Johnson, Reed, get over here!" Two stretcher bearers materialized next to us and had America up and secured in less than a minute. Sensing the necessity, I directed them hurriedly toward the manor, oblivious to the worried looks and questions from my staff._

 _"_ _In here," I went to a guest room on the first floor and they entered without a second's hesitation. Momentarily, I found myself impressed by the efficiency with which they worked, so synchronized it was like looking at the working parts of a clock. The stretcher-bearers rolled America onto the bed, while the medic divested him of his weapons, jacket, and shirt, leaving him bare from the waist up. Violent shivers wracked his frame. I went to the other side of the bed, intent on helping with something – anything! - but what I saw made me freeze in my tracks._

 _"_ _Good lord," I breathed. My wide eyes swept over his bony shoulders and jutting hipbones, his rib-cage, which seemed far too defined beneath a thin covering of sallow skin. His scars - some old and familiar, others new and unaccounted for - stood out in horrifying relief. One especially nasty one near his naval caught my attention, it looked like a puncture wound – perhaps from a bayonet. I brushed my fingers over his hand, just so I could feel as though I was contributing, and yanked my fingers back just as quickly._

 _"_ _Hellfire, he's burning up. You've got to do something!"_

 _"_ _I will try my best," said the medic without looking up. He moved to unfasten America's trousers._

 _Then, a hand on my elbow. One of the officers._

 _"_ _Miss, please, it would be best if you left now. Sergeant Stavish will take care of him," My eyes shifted warily between him and my country, reluctant to leave his side but wanting to obey orders. The officer must have seen my hesitation for he added quickly, "I will keep you informed. I swear it."_

 _He didn't wait for my assent before directing me toward the door. Truth be told I didn't have it in me to fight him on the matter, but before he could shut me out for good I seized his hand._

 _"_ _Please, do everything you can for him. He must live." The officer nodded, taken aback by the desperation in my tone._

 _"_ _He will," said the man, and then shut the door in my face._

 _Not knowing what else to do I retreated to the parlor and poured myself a glass of port, drinking deeply, refilling, and drinking again. When the warmth from the alcohol burned away I sat in front of the hearth, looking at nothing. If there was anything I hated more than incompetence, it was helplessness. The feeling of total impotency in the face of dire circumstances was one of my greatest fears. It was all I could do not to wail and moan, beat on the walls and demand to be made aware of the state of things._

 _Contrary to his word, the officer did not come to me at all. Even as hours passed and day turned into night, I heard nothing. At some point I took to pacing furiously up and down the room, restless in my boredom. I refused supper that night, turning away any servant who did not have news of America's condition. After a while they just stopped coming all together, no doubt having arrived at the conclusion that I would be inconsolable until I heard from the medic. I didn't know if was worse or better that way. Without the constant interruption, my thoughts were perpetually hung up on America._

 _If indeed he had a fever, the medic would be attempting to break it right now._ Cold water _, I thought. They'd need cold water for that. Christ help me, I wanted to be in there… What if they did something wrong? What if it wasn't enough?_

 _A terrifying thought occurred to me then._

 _What if America died? Was that even possible?_

Yes, _murmured a grave voice deep in me, it was very much a possibility. Alfred could die tonight, all because his states couldn't put aside their grievances long enough to see what it was doing to him. We were tearing him apart – the South with their secession and the North with our war. We who loved him most were killing him as we killed each other._

 _"_ _Miss?" I whirled around, surprising the officer who had come at last to collect me._

 _"_ _How is he?" I demanded._

 _"_ _His fever has broken," I felt my body sag in relief, "He's sleeping now. Sergeant Stavish says you can see him in the morning."_

 _"_ _Thank God."_

 _The officer looked over my wrinkled gown, my fly-away hair, and blood-shot gaze with a sympathetic eye. He placed a hand on my arm, meant as a gesture of comfort, "You ought to rest now too. General Jones is in good hands."_

 _"_ _I will. Thank you," I sought the insignia on his uniform denoting his rank, "Lieutenant…?"_

 _"_ _Campbell, miss," said he with a smile, "And you don't have to thank me."_

 _"_ _Even so. Goodnight, sir."_

* * *

 _The next morning found me standing quietly outside Alfred's door as the medic gave him a morning check-up. According to the Lieutenant, he was still weak, but recovering quickly, and that was more than I could have asked for._

 _A moment more, and Stavish poked his head out the door, gesturing for me to enter. My eyes flew immediately to the bed as I did so, taking in America's thin, but freshly washed form. He offered a tired smile as I neared, sitting carefully beside him._

 _"_ _How are you, Alfred?"_

 _"_ _Better than ever, Roma." Even though I knew his words to be untrue, it was heartening to see his cheerful personality make a return. I smiled back, but flicked my eyes toward the medic who remained steadfastly by the door, ready, no doubt, to forcibly eject me if my visit proved to be too trying. America followed my gaze and understood my intended meaning._

 _"_ _Sergeant, clear out a minute, will you?" he said._

 _"_ _Sir, I must insist-_

 _"_ _So must I," Alfred replied curtly, "It won't be for more than a few minutes. I promise not to up and die." Stavish nodded, and, with a parting scowl for me, excused himself, leaving us alone._

 _"_ _America, what is going on out there?" I began immediately, "I've heard only bits and pieces. No one'll give me a straight answer!"_

 _America took a long breath._

 _"_ _It isn't looking good, New York. The Rebs are dug in and holding fast," he huffed a breath, as though he couldn't believe his own words, "It's hell out there."_

 _"_ _And the others? Will no one come to our aid?" A shake of his head._

 _"_ _France and England are two shakes away from throwing in with the bastards. Most everyone else is fighting their own wars, or waiting to see who comes out on top like the goddamn opportunists they are." I let out a breath. Understanding._

 _"_ _We cannot allow the South to have European aid - they'll crush us!"_

 _"_ _I know. Believe me, I know, but I can't get through to them. I haven't talked to Arthur since the_ Trent _debacle, and France…" Alfred scoffed, "He's beyond me."_

 _I looked down at my hands, unable to hold his gaze any longer. I'd known before our situation was dire, but having this kind of confirmation made it sting anew. America was correct – England had not spoken to either of us since Wilkes captured those Confederate messengers except to issue a few blistering missives about the illegality of search and seizure on the high seas, even though he had done the same thing to us in 1812. He would be a tough nut to crack. And forget about France. We had nothing to offer him in return for his help - no carrot and stick, as it were - and I knew Alfred would never condescend to beg for aid from Napoleon._

 _It was then, with Alfred's pleading eyes on me, begging for a solution - that one occurred to me. An insane, untenable, desperate option, but also a viable one, which Francis Bonnefoy would be hard-pressed to refuse._

 _"_ _America," said I, "When is the next World Meeting?"_

 _"_ _Next month. Why?"_

 _"_ _If you take me as your second, there may be a chance I can sway France."_

 _"_ _You can?"_

 _"_ _I can try. You know how he is, he might be more… amenable," I cleared my throat, "to a woman." America frowned at me, and I almost winced in spite of myself as the ramifications of my proposal finally caught up with me. A lump formed in my throat._

 _"_ _Are you saying that you would-_

 _"_ _I am saying that I will make him an offer he cannot refuse." Alfred looked at me for a moment that seemed to span centuries._

 _"_ _I can't ask that of you, Romana," he replied at last._

 _"_ _Yes, you can. If France sides with us it will be seen as a gesture of good faith. If he maintains his neutrality then we have one less enemy to worry about. Either way, the Rebs won't get him," I got up and went to the window, falling back on the coldly familiar veneer of a politician conducting business, "It'll be worth-while if I can get an agreement out of it." Alfred blinked, considering._

 _"_ _If you think it will work then I won't stop you. I can't say what the rest of the world will think of you offering France sexual favors."_

 _I nodded. At the very least, I was thankful for his honesty on the matter._

 _"_ _Better me than the Union." I said._

* * *

 **June 21** **st** **, 1863**

 **Albany, New York**

 _Good God what am I walking into?_

 _The rogue, defeatist thought repeated itself ever more vigorously as we took our positions around the massive, oblong table in the centermost room of the Albany embassy. This building, though significantly smaller and less opulent than our D.C. branch, was a feat of architectural prowess, and its familiarity helped ease the sense of discontent in my belly. I focused on the white marble interior, designed in the Greco-Roman manner with Doric columns, intricate, carved facades, and a long, flat ceiling. The Albany embassy, known to us as the Old Independence Building, had been erected shortly following the Washington administration as a political statement, both on the national and international level. It spit in the eye of England who, until America declared independence, had never allowed a World meeting to take place within the colonies. America had always interpreted it as an oppressive measure, but in reality I suspected it had more to do with the sheer unfeasibility of journeying across the Atlantic Ocean on a biannual basis. That being said, we did not often host World Meetings, and if we did we almost always held them in D.C. unless there was a crisis preventing us from doing so, such as a civil war._

 _Or English soldiers burning down our capital._

 _Either way, I possessed a certain attachment to the Old Independence. Not simply because it was in my state, but because it had housed the first official meeting of the Union in 1798. The states were a rowdy lot, especially the newer additions, like Kentucky and Nebraska, and most of the time our meetings looked less like structured, official political discussion and more like liquor-soaked bar brawls. The painting in the threshold depicting that first meeting proved at least that much._

 _It was fortunate that the Old Thirteen at least had some experience with democratic governance, otherwise we might never get anything done._

 _All that aside, I couldn't remember ever having dressed so extravagantly for a meeting in the Independence. I'd chosen muted blue and white for the occasion, nothing too ostentatious, but the sheer volume of my skirts was enough to make any Southern Belle swoon with envy. I could not imagine how many yards of satin and lace had gone into its creation. What also struck me was the amount of time I spent before my vanity mirror, attempting to steady my throbbing heart and frayed nerves. Usually, I was an expert in allaying my own fears, but today the icy, rational calm refused to surface, no matter how desperate my summons._

 _When at last I did finally conjure enough courage to leave familiar territory and enter the Independence, a number of countries had already arrived. I stayed by America's side, silent except to exchange greetings, all the while keeping a sharp look out for France. A few of the foreigners analyzed me curiously, though not in a disapproving manner. It was curiosity that turned their heads. Usually, if America needed a second pair of hands, it was D.C. who assumed the role. Everybody liked D.C. whereas I was something of an acquired taste._

 _"_ _Are you sure about this, Romana?" America whispered discreetly._

 _"_ _Yes, I am."_

 _"_ _Alright then," His eyes narrowed as he scanned the crowd. I looked too, discomforted by the notion of what was to come, and settled my gaze on two men entering the room. It was the Beilschmidts, one in burgundy and one in blue. I nearly waved on account of our past dealings, but a nudge from America stayed my hand. The message was clear: they had not come to our aid and did not deserve our courtesy._

 _It was half-passed eleven. Thirty minutes before we were due to begin. I acknowledged the probability of an under-represented meeting today and felt my stomach do another turn. What was I to say? I'd never deliberately enticed someone before in my life, not to mention that I would be under the careful scrutiny of almost every other country in the room. In order to do this I had to achieve not only effectiveness, but discretion. It seemed impossible. I would likely muck it up, and then where would we be?_

 _"_ _God give me strength."_

 _"_ _For what, may I ask?" I turned abruptly and found myself face-to-face with the very country whose arrival I had dreaded and anticipated._

 _France stood out like a beacon against the neutral interior colors. He resembled a bluebird, dressed in cerulean and cream as he was. A striking combination, but outmatched by the blue in his eyes which were so vivid they could put any man-made dye to shame._

 _My heart thumped hard enough that I could feel it in my stomach. I sank into a low curtsey._

 _"_ _Pardon me, sir. I did not see you." He laughed freely before taking my hand and bringing it to his mouth to kiss._

 _"_ _Water under the bridge, I assure you. But you did not answer my question: for what might a lovely mademoiselle such as you need strength, hmm?"_

 _"_ _Oh, I'm afraid I was simply being dramatic. It is nothing more than a trifle really." I waved my hand dismissively, trying to off-set the rapidity of my words._

 _"_ _Even so, I consider it my duty to bring woe to that which dares trouble a lady." Perhaps it was the absurdity of the situation or just my frazzled mind, but I found myself laughing at his good-natured hyperbole. He did so in return and an easy camaraderie settled over us. Whether it be by natural cohesiveness or his innate ability with women I did not particularly care, so long as the fruit of our conversation was plentiful._

 _Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the elder Beilschmidt watching our exchange with raised eyebrow. A summer heat rose under my collar when our eyes met. I looked away, humiliated upon sensing his confusion and disapproval. The man's hawkish gaze flickered away towards America who chatted amicably with Canada and then back at me. Momentarily, I faltered in my speech, right in the middle of a saucy remark, and it showed. France cocked his head quizzically._

 _I almost half expected Prussia to come stalking over and ruin everything. I prayed to God he wouldn't. I didn't think I had the ability to uphold the façade then. My throat closed when he took a step forward, face full of unwarranted concern. But my fallacy was spared when Spain intercepted him. I exhaled in relief, glancing at America. Very clearly and purposefully, he inclined a brow, asking silently if I required assistance, before flicking his eyes at France, who had no idea all that was taking place behind him._

 _I shook my head no. This was my battle to fight alone._

 _"_ _Are you alright?" France asked when my distraction became obvious. I smiled as brightly as I could muster._

 _"_ _Yes, yes of course. I was just thinking," Quickly, I launched into my pre-determined drivel, "How long has it been since you last visited Albany?"_

 _"_ _Unfortunately, business has rarely taken me to America. I am afraid this is the first time in fifty years." I took a breath, preparing for a bold move, and went for the kill._

 _"_ _Perhaps it is time to reacquaint yourself." France appeared momentarily surprised when I inclined my head suggestively, but his consternation was soon replaced with a co-conspiratorial mischief. One didn't have to be an experienced flirt to gain a pique France's interest; however, my time with the English aristocracy had taught me a few key items when it came to the wooing the opposite sex. Namely, that body language ultimately won the day. I had him - hook, line, and sinker._

 _"_ _I could not agree more." His eyes glittered dark blue in the afternoon light, full to the brim with lascivious intent. Part of me, perhaps the one that was not steeped in ethical remiss, champed at the bit in protest, but I shoved any thoughts of backing out to the farthest reaches of my mind. I could do this. Even if it meant giving up that which I could never get back; it was for a cause bigger than mortal reservation._

 _The clock chimed high-noon as we assembled at the great table - America to my right and France very close to my left. On America's other side sat Canada, looking timid and flighty as usual. There were perhaps twenty-five nations present, a noticeably smaller number than usual; however, I had to attribute that to the location._

 _America rose, took a breath, and, with uncharacteristic bite, launched right into the topic of the day – our war. As usual, it took less than five minutes for everyone to descend into a Herculean argument. I sat back in my chair, head in hand, when someone, presumably Romano, leapt atop the table in order to better shout at Germany across the room. The man in question stood abruptly, a savage look in his eye, and returned with a blistering remark. It was madness._

 _"_ _Not feeling up to the action today?" I said when I noticed France still in his seat, fingers tented and a contented, relaxed expression on his face. He smiled without taking his eyes off the proceedings._

 _"_ _I am always up for action," His charming smile turned solicitous, "Though not this kind perhaps." My jaw clenched shut when I felt him squeeze my leg under the table._

 _"_ _Indeed," was all I could say._

* * *

 _We made our escape shortly after the World Meeting was convened. No one noticed – they were still too wrapped up in their violent discourse to pay any attention to a state and a country slipping out the side door. Though when we were far enough away from the din, the reality of what I'd done and would be expected to do hit me full on and the terrible sinking feeling clutched my stomach. I had to stop momentarily in order to collect myself._

 _"_ _Romana?" France, noticing my falling behind, retraced his steps to where I stood, leaning against the wall, "Are you alright?"_

 _"_ _No need to worry for me, I'm perfectly fine." I forced a smile and took the arm that he offered gladly, "In any case, we can take my carriage if you like. I'd rather prefer to go back to Schenectady if you don't mind."_

 _"_ _Not at all," France said courteously, "Your estate is quite impressive."_

 _"_ _Wonderful, then I suppose I can regale to you stories of Albany on the way there."_

 _The distance between Albany and Schenectady was relatively short, approximately twenty miles, and my horses were fleet. We made the journey in two, perhaps three, hours._

 _Schenectady, like Albany, was an industrial center. Not quite as modern or as expansive as the capital but just as productive. It was even once regarded as the 'Rail hub of America' for the incredible amount of shipments that came through from the Great Lakes._

 _To my surprise, France seemed genuinely interested in my economic prattle, posing questions when appropriate and even advice on occasion, though it was hardly necessary. My state's economy was lucrative, even in light of the war. Despite everything, a part of me housed a persistent feeling of inadequacy. How provincial and low-brow must all this appear to a European power? He must be itching to get on with it._

 _Regardless of the pleasantness of our conversation I knew the only thing it accomplished was to prolong the inevitable. Sooner or later we had to address the elephant in the room, and I most certainly was not looking forward to it. Every second I dallied the restlessness in me became all the more acute. I set my glass down on the table with an audible clink. France eyed at me curiously._

 _"_ _Sir, before anything else is said, I am afraid there are things we must discuss." His mouth curved in a soft smile._

 _"_ _Such as the real reason you are choosing to put yourself in a compromising position?"_

 _"_ _How did you guess?"_

 _"_ _You are not difficult to read. Besides," A playful spark bloomed in his eyes, "Any other woman would have hit me with a cast-iron skillet by now." I couldn't resist a self-satisfied grin; it didn't take a genius to know he was referring to Hungary. I'd witnessed her repudiation of many a man in the past; it was rather like watching a territorial mother moose._

 _"_ _A fair point," I looked him unabashedly in the eyes, "I am not a person who gives something for nothing, and I know you are not either."_

 _"_ _That is true, I am not. What are your terms?"_

 _"_ _What I want is you word that you will never offer assistance to, nor fight under the Confederate banner against the Union," His eyebrows rose in surprise, but I was not finished, "If you agree then I suppose you can guess what I am prepared to offer in return."_

 _"_ _You would go to such lengths?"_

 _"_ _I would. For the sake of the Union."_

 _"_ _That cannot possibly be all. I know you Romana, you have too much pride to simply auction yourself out, even if it is in the name of God and country."_

 _"_ _My reasons are my own," I said shortly, "Nonetheless, the offer stands. You may take it or leave it." France regarded me for a long moment. Meanwhile, I tamped down the ugly feeling in my stomach and swallowed so as not to show my latent self-consciousness. I couldn't help but be embarrassed at my ribald proposition, but fortunately the callousness of doing business undercut the ethical backlash. It became more palatable if it were simply another contract._

 _"_ _How can I possibly refuse that?" I'll admit, I was taken aback._

 _"_ _What?"_

 _France grinned wickedly, "You are a beautiful woman, Romana. Any man would be a fool to refuse you terms," He extended a hand to seal the deal, "You have my word, I will uphold my end of the bargain, provided you uphold yours."_

 _I swallowed, my gaze shifting between him and his proffered hand, long-fingered and un-callused. After a moment, I took it._

 _"_ _I will."_

 _At that, he stood, our hands still linked, and pulled me into his embrace and away from the safety of propriety, of structure, of certainty. France took what I offered without reservation in his sweet, embellished manner. As the clock heralded the late hour, I could not help but mourn all that which I was losing in the gathering dark and opulent upholstery of my lonely, country estate._

 _Briefly, I acknowledged that this was the very room in which I'd drank and paced, praying for America to pull through the night. At that moment, all those weeks ago, I'd made a decision to do everything in my power to ensure I would never face such aching uncertainty again._

 _The deal to end all deals; I would ensure France's cooperation with the Union until the end of time._

* * *

 **June 10** **th** **, 1944**

 **Washington D.C.**

Louis Lawrence Wesley Jones, known to just about everyone as a suave, competent, put-together sort, sat sweating and mortified at his desk, furiously smoking a cigarette and reading, for perhaps the fiftieth time over, the telegram that had arrived early this morning from the front.

 _Missing in action._

The words stuck out as if they were written in neon light.

"New York… What the hell have you done?" He raked his fingers roughly through his already disheveled hair.

He'd hoped - prayed – that this day would never come. But now it had. And he had no clue what to do. The letter, written personally by America himself, was horrendously vague and unhelpful, and made even worse by the terrible thought of _what if?_

Did America know who she was? Louis had no idea she'd been working this closely with Alfred, and New York never contacted him personally, hence any number of situations could have befallen her. Hell, she may have even been arrested by their own side for impersonating an officer or something of the like! _But that was absurd_ , he reminded himself, they wouldn't have bothered sending such a namby-pamby letter if that were the case; they would've sent a court order.

Louis swallowed. It was just like dealing with an accident on the job: the first action was always to go in personally and take care of business. There was nothing else for it.

"O'Grady! Get in here!" His red-faced assistant was before him at once.

"Yes, Mr. Jones?"

"Get me on the next ship to London. Yes, you heard me. London. Right now!"

"But sir, Congress is in session all week."

"Do I look like I give a damn?" O'Grady flinched at the use of a profanity. Louis was nearly always perfectly professional, "Just patch me through to Rayburn, something's come up."

"Right away, Mr. Jones." Louis failed to acknowledge the man as he rushed out the door. He was much more concerned with getting his affairs in order. He had no idea how long he might be gone. The country would have to run itself for a time. There could be no distractions on this journey, especially those in the form of his own government. New York was in dire straits and Louis was the only man in the world who could help her. He just hoped it wasn't too late to sort this mess out.


	8. New Order

**New Order**

 **June 17** **th** **, 1944**

 **Normandy, France**

"Hey Lane, how do you confuse a Frenchman?"

"I don't know Strike. How?"

"Give him a rifle and ask him to shoot it." Lane almost choked on his drink.

"Jesus, where do you come up with these?" Streicher gave a self-satisfied grin.

"You don't wanna know. Speaking of which, why don't you ever hear about the success of the French Navy?" Lane shrugged, "Because cardboard doesn't float." The pair burst out in raucous, inebriated laughter, completely oblivious to anyone who might've been watching. Lane and Streicher had been buddies for a good long time, and with it came a distinct disregard for the prescribed deference a subordinate was expected to show for a superior. Here, they were equals.

"So, _Captain_ ," Streicher fixed him with slightly bleary eyes, "What's it like being Jones' new golden boy?" Lane took a pull from his bottle of captured German rum.

"Oh Lord, don't get me started Strike. It's like babysitting a teenager," He rubbed his forehead tiredly, "I'll tell you what, I don't know how Carter did it." Streicher grunted his affirmation. He too had respected Carter's ability to function amidst chaos, not that he would let anyone besides Lane know that though.

"The men miss you." Lane sighed, "It just ain't the same with you being all upper-crust now. It's damn boring running things by our lonesome."

"It's damn boring running things up here too."

"Yeah? What's he got you doing? Dictation?"

"Practically. I feel like a damn secretary!" Lane put his bottle down with a bang, "Christ, do I look like a secretary to you?"

"Well, you've got lovely cursive." Lane scowled at his smirking friend.

"Yeah, laugh it up jackass," He groused, "You ain't pushing papers all day."

"Sounds better than being shot at by a bunch of second-rate marksmen," Streicher held up a hand, "Sons-a-bitches almost blew my arm off."

"At least you're out there doing something. And you know, the worst part about it is I can't say a damn thing. Jones is a general."

Streicher snorted, and with typical Streicher wit he said, "Well, if it were me I'd tell him to take his rank and shove it-

"Captain Lane, Corporal Streicher. If you're quite finished." Lieutenant Gillan stood stiffly, his eyes narrowed at the indecorous sight of two mildly-inebriated Americans before him. Lane felt himself go whiter than a sheet as embarrassment welled in his chest.

"Gillan, what are you doing here?" He asked, trying to mask the slight slur in his speech. Gillan watched him disapprovingly.

"I came to tell you that General Jones requires your presence, if you are not otherwise occupied," He said coldly. Lane winced, humiliated as Gillan turned on his heel and stalked off, pausing only once to say, "You lot ought to be ashamed of yourselves."

"That's your cue, golden boy." Streicher whacked him on the shoulder as he rose to meet his fate.

"Strike, one of these days I'm going to court-marshal your ass."

"Yeah… I'd like to see you try," He gave Lane a sidelong look as he lit a cigarette, "Now get out of here before that Tommy comes back and tans your hide."

Lane waved him off and forced his leaden feet to carry him to the command tent where Jones and his colleagues awaited him. He swiped his face several times with his sleeve in order to restore his alertness, but in the back of his mind he knew no amount of primping would restore his pride. Were they going to punish him? Kick him off his job? Gillan's disparaging glare as he entered was enough to reinforce his apprehension. Lane suddenly had an urge to turn around and walk right back out where he came in.

Fortunately, Jones and the rest of them seemed to know nothing about his slip in military etiquette, for the man smiled brightly when he saw him. Lane saluted smartly, business face back on, and joined them, thanking his lucky stars that he could hold his liquor well.

The other commanders, Kirkland and Williams, Lane had to admit he didn't harbor much affection for, or at least much understanding. Kirkland treated Jones and Williams like petulant children, and though it was not completely unjustified, to Lane it seemed like overstep of authority. What gave him the right to snub two other commanders of equal rank? And Williams, much to Lane's utter perplexity, just sat and took whatever abuse the other two doled out. It was pathetic. Add that to their incredible youth, Lane didn't know how they managed to function as a cohesive team.

"Captain, do you remember when I told you part of our job is to meet with SHAEF?" Jones addressed him, "Well we've got a meeting coming up, and we're due in London tomorrow." Lane's eyebrows shot up.

"Sir, you mean we're leaving the front?"

"Only for a day or two, we'll be back as soon as it's over." Williams, the Canadian, supplicated softly. Lane nodded uneasily, not liking the idea of leaving, but willing to do as he was bid.

In spite of the commanders' various idiosyncrasies, he wanted to make sure everything functioned as smoothly as it had before he assumed his current position, even if it meant putting his own priorities on the backburner. It was tough, as the past week had proven; Carter used had Lane to oversee the men when he was fulfilling his duty to Jones, whereas Lane had no formal second in command. Furthermore, they hadn't been in the field since the invasion of Salerno nearly a year ago; it was a hell of a lot easier to do two jobs from a marshalling camp in England than the frontline in Normandy.

"Yes, and on that note. The ship is departing within the hour, so I suggest you settle whatever affairs that you have with you men immediately, Captain."

"Yes sir, right away." Lane said automatically even though it was Kirkland who addressed him.

He left feeling like he had just dodged a major bullet.

* * *

"You haven't told him yet, have you, America?" England addressed the elephant in the room the instant after Captain Lane took his leave. America looked petulant and sheepish all at once as he turned to glare at the elder country.

"That's none of your concern, England."

"It bloody-well is my concern if you're going to undermine our operation with ignorant associates!" Every man in the room felt a need to distance themselves from the Englishman's blistering temper, "Regardless of your sentiment, Captain Lane is your second in command now. He must be informed of the reality of our situation."

"Alright, alright, I get it." America waved his hand dismissively, an action England remembered from his childhood, "I'll talk to him right now, ok? Christ."

"Grow up, Alfred," England snapped. The others just looked on as the burgeoning cockfight played out, but America left before anything more could come of it.

"Hey Lane, hold on!" The captain turned abruptly, unused to being addressed so informally by a superior. He reminded himself yet again that it was just how Jones operated.

"Sir?"

"There's a couple things we've got to talk about before we get going," Lane tensed. Was Jones going to chastise him after all? He thought he prepared himself for anything and everything, but as Jones began to speak he realized just how off the mark he was.

An hour later, Captain Lane sat stiffly on the ship back to England with his eyes glued on the unnaturally young faces of the commanders who, not long ago, he thought were simply privileged youths from prestigious military families. Oh, how wrong he'd been. His gaze shifted uneasily between the three of them, Jones, to Kirkland, to Williams, and back to Jones again.

"You ok?" Jones said, abashed concern written all over his face.

"With all due respect, sir, I'm pretty damn far from ok."

"I'm sorry Lane, really. I should have told you sooner."

"I'd say so." He said, far more pointedly than he'd intended. Jones winced, "Did Carter know?"

"Yes," Kirkland answered for him, "And I might say his reaction was very similar to yours."

"Is that so?"

This time it was Gillan who spoke, "It is. Don't worry old chap, it came as a shock to us all." He gestured then to his French-Canadian cohort, Thomas Default, a tall, red haired officer from Quebec who smiled affably from his position at William's side. Lane jerked his head in return.

Everything was coming into place. Jones' baffling youth, the secretiveness, their involvement with SHAEF. Most of all, Lane understood now Carter's unswerving loyalty to Jones, after seeing the same devotion in Gillan and Default. They were seconds to England and Canada, just as Carter had been to America, and just as Lane was now. Their duty was just that much more complicated and pivotal, he realized, for they were charged with not only advising their countries but protecting them in the field, even if that meant sacrificing themselves in the process. According to Jones such a thing was only ever rarely the case, but nonetheless, Lane was reeling with his new understanding of Carter's urgency on that last afternoon. He'd been expected to lay down his life for a single man.

"We're more than happy to answer any questions you might have." Williams nodded to show solidarity with Jones, while Kirkland just arched his brow, sniffing haughtily.

"Questions? I've got so many questions my head's gonna explode." Lane coughed a laugh, "I got up this morning thinking everyone on this earth had a time, you know? That we're all born and we're all gonna die. And now you're telling me that everything I was brought up to believe is bullshit? I'm sorry, but I have a hard time believing that you three are… _countries._ That shouldn't be possible. How is that possible?" He gestured to Jones' hand, where, to prove his story earlier, he'd made a deep incision with a field knife. It had healed completely in less than twenty seconds.

"Trust me, Captain, we have been trying to answer the same question for centuries." Kirkland said, "But that does not mean that everything you thought is less true now than it was before. I am of the mind that God created us with a purpose, just as he created you, and everyone else. We may operate differently, but the same divine rules that govern you govern us as well. We are not so different." Lane heaved a breath.

"I suppose it would explain a lot."

"That it does. Tell me, what was your initial conjecture?" Lane shrugged.

"I just supposed you were all from some big international military academy or something."

"It was more intelligent than my first guess," Gillan said, "I thought they were spies." The six of them shared a laugh before Lane brought the conversation around again.

"SHAEF knows?"

"Yes, and our leaders, and now you," Jones said, "But Lane, you understand that you cannot say anything about this to anyone, yes? If the Germans figure out who's who, shit's gonna hit the fan real quick."

"Yes sir, but if the Allied countries exist as men, does the Axis as well? Couldn't they identify you?"

"They could, but there are statutes of secrecy that protect the general public. Only the most high-ranking leaders know the truth and even they are sworn to secrecy. Furthermore, every government imposes different laws about allowing us countries in the field; the Krauts have no idea who's in and who's out." Lane gave a low whistle.

"Boy do I feel like a moron."

"Don't worry, Captain. You'll pick it up eventually, "As an afterthought, America added: "It took Carter a week to believe me."

* * *

 **June 18** **th** **, 1944**

 **Bushy Park, Bedfordshire**

 **SHAEF HQ**

London was about like Lane remembered it. Same buildings, same roads, same people even. The only thing that'd changed was the circumstances. Last time he'd been with Major Carter on leave after their stint Salerno. Now he was here in Carter's place. It was like he was seeing it all again for the first time.

"The meeting is scheduled for noon. Maybe later if Canada drags his ass," Jones said, more to fill the silence than anything else. Lane pursed his lips, concerned instead with mastering the nervousness that sprung up in his gut. He was attending a SHAEF conference! Never in all his years, had he anticipated being allowed to attend such a meeting. The highest Allied command on the continent, comprised of people like Eisenhower and Montgomery and others whom soldiers like Lane only met in dreams, discussing the future of the war. It was glorious. He was terribly excited and nervous all at once.

They navigated through the layered security, to the north-eastern part of the park where the SHAEF headquarters was located. Jones informed Lane that they'd moved here in January, shortly after the 8th Air Force had vacated it. It was an impressive setup, Lane thought. When he wasn't fiddling with his seldom-worn dress uniform he was trying to take in as many details as he could of the place. Who knows when he might be here again?

As it would happen, they arrived an hour early; however, someone was already feverishly awaiting their arrival.

The man stood stiffly with his arms crossed over a lean torso. He wore an expensive, pinstriped suit, and his hair, dark like varnished mahogany, was combed to perfection. A gold watch chain glinted at his vest. His features were straight, strong, and honest upon first glance, but there was a certain shrewd discernment in his eyes that alerted Lane immediately as to his profession. Lawyer. Or a businessman maybe. Either way he didn't belong here. Lane distrusted him instantly.

"Louis?" Lane turned in time to see a surprised grin stretch across Jones' face. He was stunned. _They knew each other?_ Was this man a country as well? Whatever the case, Jones greeted the man without reservation, embracing him like an old friend. They were about the same height and could have been related _. A brother?_ An unsettling thought to be sure. Lane, head high with distaste, caught up to Jones in three strides.

"What are you doing here? Ditching Congress?" Jones jested.

"No, no, I have business here," The man smiled good-naturedly but the focused intensity in his eyes remained unwavering; he knew exactly what he was doing, "I heard about your loss."

"You did?"

"Naturally." Lane felt his eyes narrow. He bristled with animosity as the lawyer extricated himself gracefully from Jones, all poise and prettiness and audacity.

Lane was not yet old enough to really 'feel' his age, but he suddenly understood the lamentations of his curmudgeonly Irish grandfather whenever Lane and his brothers roughhoused in the living room like a pack of apes. He probably had twelve years on this young upstart and yet the man strutted about as if he owned the place. _Sly, oily bastard._ Lane would give anything to knock him down a peg. At last, Jones turned to him.

"Captain, this is Louis Jones, my cousin."

Lane froze.

"Pardon?" He said ungracefully. The lawyer threw his head back and chuckled good-naturedly, putting an arm around Jones. Indeed, it was impossible to deny the resemblance between the two.

"Come on, Alfred, don't bore the man with details." He stunned Lane, first by his use of Jones' Christian name, and then by extending his hand as though they were equals. Lane hesitated before taking it, "Good to meet you, Captain."

"Right."

"So, Lou, what brings you to our neck of the woods?" Jones asked.

"This and that," The lawyer meandered vaguely, "But mostly the fate of your former second in command."

"How do you know about that?" The lawyer smiled a slimy half-grin that Lane decided he hated.

"I have my ways," He sighed dramatically when neither Lane nor Jones responded, "In case you forgot, I am kept updated with news from the front. A copy of Major Carter's condolence letter happened to cross my desk."

"I see." Jones looked downward, almost shamefully.

"I was very sorry to hear what happened. Major Carter was a good man."

"You knew him?" Lane asked abruptly.

"I did."

Just then, Kirkland and Williams arrived, ending the conversation. Lane tailed silently behind his superior as he formed ranks with his fellow countries. He wondered, not for the first time, why he was even here in the first place; Lane was happy to protect him in the field, but right now what Jones needed was a paper-pusher, or a secretary, not a proper aide. The only thing he accomplished by keeping Lane around was to deprive their regiment of an experienced officer. It seemed to Lane incredibly irresponsible.

He watched Louis Jones pontificate and adulate as he appealed to America's foreign cohorts. They ate it right up. Although Lane surmised that they'd had dealings with each other in the past, something about it just didn't sit right with him. A lawyer had no business in military affairs. If Carter were here he would have thrown the bastard out on his ear. Of that, Lane was quite sure.

"Captain, are you quite alright? You seem… disgruntled." Gillan queried, startling Lane out of his mordant musings.

"You'd be right about that," He did not take his eyes off of Louis Jones, "Do you know him?"

"I do. He's not a bad chap actually," Gillan's cool gray eyes took on a hue of mischief when he witnessed Lane's dumb-struck expression, "You don't like him?"

"How can I? He's a dandy and a preener and he has no business here."

"Lane, you'll come to find that things do not work quite the same way once you've been accepted into the fold. And if you'll take my advice," He smiled wryly, "Don't fall out of favor with your nation's capital." He left Lane standing there, agog and aghast, stuttering like a fool.

Across the room, Washington D.C. smiled to himself.


	9. Desperate Times

**Desperate Times**

 **June 19** **th** **, 1944**

 **Strasbourg, France**

 _Generaloberst Beilschmidt,_

 _It has come to my attention that you have taken into custody an American officer by the name of Major Randall Carter. Firstly, I must commend you on your efforts, both in the field and out; however, I believe that an opportunity of this magnitude must be exploited to the furthest extent. Therefore, the captive will come under a joint custody between the Wehrmacht and the Algemeine-SS. I understand the difficulty of your position and am prepared to allocate Gestapo forces in order to expedite the process if the need should arise. I look forward to our collaboration and hope that we may reach further consensus in the future._

 _Heil Hitler._

 _H. Himmler_

 _Reichsführer-SS_

Germany's face was pink with fury as he read over the latest correspondence from on-high. The contents of the telegram may have appeared innocuous, even generous to the ignorant eye, but Germany was well-versed enough in party politics to know a threat when he heard one. Himmler could destroy him if he so desired; Germany's immunity as a Wehrmacht commander was limited at best, but against a key member of the German High Command? It was open season.

He was incandescent with rage.

How on earth had Himmler found out about Major Carter?

Germany's frown deepened. The question was practically rhetorical: there was a leak in the system. There must be. How else could he have known? The real question was, now, who had provided the intel? But that too was nearly self-explanatory.

Germany glared murderously at the back of Standartenführer Kraus – the bastard. The man had a nose for anything out of the ordinary, and while it made him an effective SS officer, it also made him intrusive. He knew something was going on the instant Germany expressed his interest in Major Carter. Granted, it didn't take an analytical genius to spot a violation of the Geneva Convention, but if that wasn't cause for alarm, the lack of response from any of the higher-ups certainly was. Germany chastised himself for this predicament. It was his fault after all; if he hadn't been so enthusiastic about the whole operation he might have been spared the headache, not to mention the immense loss of ground. Carter's usefulness was time sensitive, for he only knew what the Allies immediate plans were; in a week they could have a completely different objective and means of achieving it. If Kraus interfered, Germany could not use his knowledge of Carter's identity to his advantage. It was a losing situation no matter which way he looked at it.

"Kemmerich, tell the Commandant that I require his presence immediately."

"Yes, sir."

Five minutes later the man in question stood in front of Germany's desk, puffed up like a preening rooster. He knew exactly what this was about.

"Commandant," Germany began sharply, "Has the usurpation of my authority become something of a hobby for you, or is it entirely coincidental that I received a telegram from Reichsführer Himmler ordering dual custody over Major Carter?"

"Do not flatter yourself, Beilschmidt. If you recall, the man is imprisoned in a camp run by the SS. We have as much claim over him as you. Furthermore, our tactics are far more likely to yield a result. I understand he hasn't said a word to you, has he?" Germany felt himself tense, fury pulling at its tether deep in him. He ground his teeth together before answering.

"Major Carter was captured by Wehrmacht soldiers, and under Wehrmacht authority he shall remain! You have absolutely no right to insert yourself!" Kraus, unflinching, watched Germany with stark, derisive eyes.

"According to Himmler, I have every right."

"Himmler would not even know about this had you not tipped him off!"

"You have no authority over the SS, General. From now on, I will participate fully in the interrogations of the American, also I demand to be made privy to all the details regarding his capture and detainment. We shall commence with another interrogation after lunch; I expect that Major Carter will be singing like a lark by the time we get through with him." Kraus, a smug look on his face, turned and left without dismissal or compulsory salute before Germany could reply. The door shut with mocking gentleness.

"That utter bastard." Germany's voice rang low with malice at his utter impotence in the situation. Kraus was going to ruin his operation once again out of nothing more than sheer spite and there was nothing to be done about it!

He heaved a great, miserable sigh. It was ten o'clock. Major Carter would be interrogated at noon and Germany seriously doubted that Kraus's 'methods' would yield anything of use. If anything, they would only serve to further alienate the Major from them. If he were to obtain anything it would be by Major Carter's free will. Ergo, he had to gain at least some modicum of rapport, and if not that then enough leverage to sway him in the direction of compliance. Kraus had clearly learned nothing from his time with the man. Major Carter would eviscerate him.

* * *

The last time Germany interrogated the belligerent American was three days ago, and it had been just as fruitless and unproductive as the first four attempts. Since then he had said nary a word, except on rare occasions when he felt inclined to taunt his captors. It was unimaginably infuriating and resulted in innumerable headaches, as well as a dearth in viable excuses Germany could use to keep Rommel at bay. Now, with Kraus heading the charge, the likelihood of getting anything at all out of the American was practically nil. Especially given the way the good Commandant was handling the proceedings insofar.

Kraus, as previous experience dictated, was already hot under the collar after twenty minutes. Germany had spent hours with the American and never gotten to this point, well, except for that first time. He'd long since become accustomed to Carter's manner, and, if Germany were truthful, he looked forward to seeing him spar with the Commandant.

"Once more, Major Carter. What is the Allied plan of attack?" Carter looked at him through dark-rimmed, bloodshot eyes. The interrogations, or perhaps simply the nature of imprisonment, had without a doubt taken their toll. He looked wan, as though he hadn't slept for weeks, but remained ever resolute in his resistance.

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

Germany winced as Kraus smacked him in the face. He contemplated stepping in, but he knew it would accomplish nothing. Kraus was leagues passed listening to reason, and from the looks of it, so was Major Carter. The man's eyes were hard and narrowed, watching Kraus with undisguised hatred as if he were contemplating what best way to maim the offending officer, and his posture was tensed like a serpent moments away from striking.

"Fuck you." Carter snarled.

Aggression and malice exploded in Kraus's eyes. He lashed out again, only to strike empty air. Carter's reaction was quicker than lightning. Before Germany could react he threw his tied hands around Kraus's neck and yanked him halfway across the table.

"Major Carter!" Germany shouted, though his urgency was born more of shock than actual concern for his detestable colleague. As far as he was concerned, Kraus had it coming, "Let him go now!"

Carter stared coldly at the gun leveled suddenly at his forehead, as though it meant little more to him than a fly on the wall. His grip did not slacken. Germany glanced at Kraus whose face grew redder by the second, whether by asphyxia, anger or humiliation he couldn't have been sure.

"I will shoot you, mark my words." By this time the two SS guards heard the commotion and entered the room, only to find their highest ranking commander caught in a chokehold by a gaunt, filthy prisoner half his size.

"Go ahead and do it then!"

"Good God, man, let him go! I do not jest!"

"Nor do I."

How do you threaten a man who has no fear of death? Germany had no answer forthcoming, so he hardened his heart and fired a bullet straight through Major Carter's right shoulder. The rapport cracked like thunder, leaving his ears ringing.

Kraus slid ungracefully to the floor, gasping and wheezing as his breath returned to him. A bright red line marked the place his throat had been constricted. It would likely be there for a long time to come. As for Carter, he lay prostrate, a look of surprise on his face as if he hadn't actually expected Germany to shoot. A red stain was already blooming on his service blouse. The shot was a through-and-through, but Germany expected him to make a full and speedy recovery.

The two SS men roughly pulled Carter to his feet, ignoring his cry of pain. Germany did not blame them; however, he could not allow anyone to witness Carter's wound heal in a matter of minutes either.

"I will take if from here. See to the Commandant and send Vargas to me immediately." Germany took Carter by the arm, earning a hiss from the bleeding American, and swept him from the room before Kraus or his men could have a chance at reprisal.

* * *

"Move!" Germany shoved me down the hall when I dragged my feet too much. Suffice it to say he was not a happy camper. Well, neither was I.

"Alright, alright, take it easy!"

He just rolled his eyes and said to me frankly, "Major, that is the least of your worries."

"What do you care?" I demanded. To my surprise he jerked to a halt and looked me square in the face.

"Kraus is not a man with whom to pick a fight. I should think that someone in your position would be more aware of that."

"I do not suffer fools." Germany stared at me in utter exasperation.

"Unfortunately, I believe you."

"Then you'll know why I did what I did!"

"You stupid American… Do you people ever think about the consequences of your actions?"

I felt his tension acutely in the air, like a cord ready to snap. It bled over to me as well. I shouldn't have done that back there, I knew that. But dammit, I wouldn't out up with a man like the Commandant, not in this life or the next. The way I saw it, strangling him was penance. Penance for all the humiliation and misery I'd put up with since I got here. He deserved it, and that was that.

"Well, I'm here aren't I?" Germany exhaled loudly and gave me a shove in the direction of the barracks.

"Keep moving, Yankee."

* * *

Roll call that evening was a stunted affair. Kraus appeared, much to my surprise and disappointment, with bloodshot eyes and a bandage around his throat. The latter, I wagered, was more to mend his pride than his neck, but I wasn't going to be the one to point that out. France glanced at me once, worry etched in his face. I'd told him the harrowing tale of this morning's interrogation, in which the good Commandant had felt the need to encroach on things, thereby provoking a response from me. Furthermore, if I'd seen correctly, it looked like Germany held no more love for the man than me. The concern I expected and probably would've shown myself had the roles been reversed and it was my colleague being strangled to death, was absent. Clearly, their working relationship was something less than stellar.

In any event, Kraus stalked down the line with perhaps a more voracious malice than usual. There was something about him this evening that made my blood cool in my veins and my gut twist in dread. He pronounced the names through drawn lips and clenched teeth, mine more of a bark than anything else as he fixed me with an ice cold stare that I felt all the way down to my bones. It smacked of loathing and malicious intent, so much that I was actually prompted to fear a reprisal. In the past I'd always been able to dismiss his high-handed threats due to the utter predictableness of his nature – I knew his type, I dealt with them all the time back home – but now I faced an unknown quantity. My actions this morning had unhinged the door of superiority that kept his impulse under control. I'd emasculated and humiliated him, and he was not going to forget it any time soon.

When he passed us by I felt myself heave a great sigh. France's brow creased with concern as he watched me from the corner of his eye. It was pointless really. There was nothing he could do about it. I straightened up as Kraus delivered the evening address and then he was gone, into the shadows facing the compound entrance.

"Come on, Ro-" I rammed my elbow into his ribs, " _Randall_." France finally said.

"Right behind you. I'm gonna hit the john first." He nodded and kept on his way while I went mine. There were very specific times I could go about my business, and this was one of them. The last thing I needed was for some froggy to wonder why I didn't stand up to piss.

I reached the latrines and ducked into the farthest one closest to the wall. It was nearly invisible in the shadows. Quickly, I pulled my trousers halfway down my thighs, did my business, and righted myself in less than a minute. No one had come.

This was the world I lived in now – one of secrecy, suspicion, and precaution. There was not a moment I could let my guard down, not one solitary second I could stop looking over my shoulder or be entirely at ease with myself. At night, when the rest of them were asleep, I meticulously rebound my breasts – no simple task, considering my endowment – and periodically during the day checked to make sure the fastenings were intact. Having a malfunction in _that_ arena would be the worst possible thing. As a state I was as strong as any man, but I was still just one person. If a group of guards or even POW's got it in their head to have some fun with the only broad in the compound they could overpower me easily.

But, as of right now, I was certain that my sex remained comfortably obscured, even if the effort it took to maintain the façade was more taxing than ever before. Before I left the states, Louis spent hours teaching me the finer points of manhood. Everything from the way I talked to the way I walked to how I held myself had to change and by the end of it I felt like an entirely different person. Though I suppose that was the goal. I held myself straight with my shoulders pulled back and looked people in the eyes, I sat with my legs spread instead of crossed – a posture of power, Louis said – and found myself carrying a new confidence. Utterly foreign, yes, but so powerful I felt it stirring wherever I went.

I also realized the extent to which I hadn't appreciated the complexity of the male world. There were just as many rules and social niceties to abide by as there were for women, not to mention skills, like tying a tie, that I'd never had reason to learn before. These were the aspects of manhood, or at least the perception thereof, that I did appreciate. The rest was not so welcome.

Until now it was always easy for me to take for granted the many complaints lodged against men by the fairer sex, but I'd also never truly appreciated the difficulties men faced, as well as the expectations. I couldn't count how many times I'd been asked about the wife and children I didn't have, how my family got by during the Depression, or what I did for a living. Equally as frequent were the looks of disapproval when I informed them that I provided for no one but myself and had no intention of ever changing that. And God forbid when I forgot one of the rules of manly etiquette. One time I deigned to ask why I ought to pay the dinner costs for a woman whom I hadn't invited to dine with me in the first place and nearly had my eyes scratched out. It was only afterwards, with Lane trying not to laugh at me, that I understood I was practically beholden to any woman I spent more than five minutes entertaining. After that, I tried to minimize contact with those of the gentler disposition as much as humanly possible. Truth be told, the act of courtship was unduly daunting, even if it was feigned for the benefit of others. I worried endlessly of the perception of women – that they may be able, by that mystic sixth sense that all women seem to possess, to see through my deception. Equally as worrisome to me was the possibility that my own men might put the pieces together were I to spend too much time around another woman. They might look beyond Randall Carter's gruffness and see my hands, too small to be a man's; my forearms, far too slender to carry the loads that they did; or the softness of my features when I wore something other than a scowl.

 _Goddamn,_ it wasn't a wonder I hadn't developed a heart condition with all this…

* * *

"Feliciano, will you please _sit down_." Germany enunciated each syllable with a crispness that belied his irritation, watching from his desk Italy gesticulating rapidly in his effort to make sense of the situation before them. Dander and blood-pressure already raised from this morning's debacle, Germany had little patience to spare for Italy's histrionic inclinations. To exacerbate matters further, a telegram from Rommel arrived not two hours ago, detailing his impatience and frustration both with Germany's lack of progress as well as his own on the front. Germany could almost feel what precious little time they had slipping like sand through his incapable fingers.

The noose was tightening swiftly.

"Italy!" He barked, causing the other country to jump no less than six inches off the ground, "This will solve nothing! Now sit down and act like a man!"

Italy's owlish eyes widened, and, in another instant, welled with crocodile tears. Germany gazed back coldly, rigid and practically steaming with vexation. He'd had enough of emotional hysteria for one day. In the hours following the incident with Major Carter, Kraus had paid him a very uncordial visit, complete with screaming, frothing, and a frighteningly sincere threat against Major Carter's life, of which Germany did not for a moment doubt the veracity. What he needed more than anything else at the moment – yes, even more than Major Carter's compliance - was a way to keep the Commandant reigned in, but that being said, Germany had little in the way of recourse. He himself was Wehrmacht, and Italy's solutions all involved ingratiating the man with extravagant displays of culinary prowess or some such ridiculousness. There was truly nothing to be done, and for the first time in the history of the Third Reich, Germany wished he were a member of the Schutzstaffel.

By all imaginable standards, Germany outranked the Commandant; however, Kraus was by no means obligated to obey his authority, as Germany's command began and ended within the confines of the Wehrmacht. The injustice of it never failed to rankle him. He was a country - he should have unlimited, unquestionable control over the actions of a mere prison guard! - and yet he was powerless to do anything. If he did, Kraus could easily invoke Himmler again and have Carter transferred out of Germany's jurisdiction entirely! Or worse yet, discover for himself Carter's unnatural abilities.

Neither option seemed to Germany to be at all tenable.

"What are we going to do?" Italy voiced Germany's very thoughts.

"I do not know. Kraus wants Major Carter executed and he is prepared to turn to the SS High Command to see it done. My hands are tied."

"Well,-" Italy stumbled over his words, "We've got to stop him! They won't be able to kill a state, and if they find out what he is then-

"I am aware of that." He scrubbed hard at his eyes, "But there is nothing, legally, I can do about it."

"What about Rommel? Or Rundstedt? Surely they could-

"No. Neither Rommel nor Rundstedt has any authority over Kraus. And I would not ask that of them." Italy's shoulders slumped, a pained set to his mouth. With a sigh, Germany rose and poured them both well-earned glasses of pre-war brandy he'd been saving for an occasion like this.

For a long moment the two sat, imbibing their spirits in silence. Germany slowly resigned himself to the fate of Major Randall Carter – tomorrow he would explain the exact circumstances of their situation to him. Maybe then, when he understood what faced him, he would be more forthcoming. Germany would wish no such brutality on any man, even a pig-headed, dogmatic Yankee like Major Carter.

"I hate that man." Germany did not have to think hard about whom Italy referred, the sentiments echoed fresh and raw in his mind as well. He cursed the day he first laid eyes on Armin Kraus.

"As do I."

Suddenly, Italy's whole body jolted upright, as though he'd just been struck by a bolt of lightning. The movement was so fast and sudden that Germany flinched.

"I have an idea!" Germany's eyebrows raised with interest, "I am such an _idiota!_ It is so obvious!"

"I wait with baited breath." Italy grinned slyly, leaning in as though to disclose to Germany a closely-kept secret.

"Prussia." Germany stood stock still, "He is SS. He could stop the Commandant! I don't know why it didn't occur to me sooner, it is positively-

"No."

"Scusa?"

"I will not crawl to him for aid."

"But Germany! It is Major Carter's life on the line! We need him, _you_ need him. I've seen the telegrams, the front is collapsing!"

Germany shook his head vigorously.

 _"_ _We will find another way._ I will surrender the war before I have _Prussia_ come here." Italy gasped, looking at him as though he were a stranger.

"He is your brother!" Germany stood then, anger creeping hotly against his neck.

"He lost us the Eastern Front! It is because of him our men were slaughtered in that Russian wasteland, and it is because of him still that we fail!"

"Germany, Prussia is our only hope! If you fail now then all those men out there will die for nothing! Do you want that blood on your hands? All on account of pride?" Germany sucked in a breath, "Both you and I swore an oath to do all that is necessary to protect our people, and now that we have a chance to do so you resist? I do not understand you."

Germany felt a shameful blade lance through his heart at Italy's words. _He was right_. For once, Italy was right. He sat down heavily, as though in a trance, his expression crumpled and his scorn curtailed. He raked a hand through his hair, his words no more than a whisper, "What am I doing, Feliciano?"

Italy, as his nature dictated, lay a companionable hand on his friend's shoulder.

"Send a telegram today," He said in an uncharacteristically steadfast manner, "If I know Gilbert, he will not refuse."

"That is exactly what I am afraid of."

"Oh, Germany, things cannot be as bad that. He is family, after all," Italy grinned brightly, as though, by smiling, he could alleviate all the problems of the world, "Will you do it?"

"It seems I must."

"Good," He seized Germany in a tight embrace, "I know you won't regret it."

"We will see. And, Italy?"

"Ci?"

"Don't touch me."


	10. Desperate Measures

**Desperate Measures**

 **June 18** **th** **, 1944**

 **Bedfordshire, England**

Years later, when he told his grandchildren about his wartime escapades, Lane would reflect on the notion of Washington D.C. being a dandified lawyer with a voice like FDR, with the same dumbstruck disbelief he did now. Gradually he felt his jaw close as the revelation sank in, but not before the man himself caught Lane's eye and smiled politely, as though he knew what was going through his head at that moment.

"Captain, were planning on standing there all day or are you going to join us?" Kirkland's voice yanked him from his reverie.

"Yes sir, of course, sir."

"Well then hurry up, the war will soon be over if you don't get a move on." Obediently, he followed their procession, noting with some indignant curiosity that Louis Jones gave no sign of letting them be. He strutted in next to Jones as if he owned the place, a large, confident smile on his face and a spring in his step. Fortunately, Lane's discontent at the paltry display was quickly overshadowed by the mighty presence of the other men in the room. He felt suddenly very small and insignificant as several of them, including Tedder and Eisenhower himself, came to greet Jones, speaking with him as equals. Lane was impressed with the uncharacteristic solemnity Jones displayed. He appeared very adult and put together, to qualities foreign to his bright demeanor.

When they turned to him, Lane didn't know what to say at first. He was overtaken with how uncannily human Eisenhower seemed, his normality. Up until this point he and the rest of SHAEF were more like omnipotent beings floating out in the ether – present, but intangible. Now he stood before him, flesh and bone and blood, just like any other man.

"Congratulations on your promotion, Captain. I was sorry to hear about Major Carter." Lane saluted deferentially.

"Thank you, sir. I hope to do his legacy justice."

"I'm sure you will." Eisenhower excused himself then, leaving Lane feeling thoroughly winded, like a balloon infused with too much air. He glanced at Jones, who was trying to contain a huge grin.

"Well, that went well." It was Louis who spoke first, but Lane was too star struck to mind much, "Eisenhower's got good sense."

"That he does." Jones murmured. The meeting was called to order shortly thereafter and Lane found himself standing just behind his country's left shoulder with a full view of the table and everyone surrounding it.

They began with a situation report. As of yet, the Allied forces were locked up in the French peninsula, casualties were high, and the fighting brutal and messy, but it was just a matter of time now. The Jerries were thinning. They couldn't hold out for much longer. On that note, Lane was proud. His regiment was one of those heading the charge.

Next on the agenda was munitions, followed by the inland objectives once break-out was achieved. Lane knew all of this, but the information was made new by the sheer novelty of its delivery. _The highest ranking Allied commanders all gathered in one room_. He paid rapt attention to the formal proceedings and remained content with the curt rationality of the SHAEF members. It wasn't until the end of the meeting, when Louis Jones moved to speak, that Lane felt again the malignant sting of discontent.

The smooth lawyer looked to Eisenhower for clearance, that his words might be accepted and received. He seemed terribly out of place – civilian and rich - but none of that showed on his face, in fact he looked suspiciously in his element, as if it had been contrived beforehand. His thin mustache quirked to one side when Eisenhower began an introduction.

"There's one last order of business before we finish up. This man here is Louis Jones, a representative from Washington D.C. He has arrived here today with important information, of which all of you should be aware." He nodded to Louis who smiled in return and assumed command of the room with such practiced ease it was like he'd known every man in there for decades, which wasn't too far out of the realm of possibilities when you thought about it.

"Thank you for allowing me to be here today. I understand the importance of what you do here and I have no wish to compromise or hinder your efforts; however, it has come to my attention that there are certain security concerns of which you all must be made aware. Twelve days ago Major Carter, a good friend of mine and General Jones, as well as a skilled commander, was taken prisoner. As you can imagine, his absence presents a certain threat to the Non-Disclosure Statute, the purpose of which is to safeguard the position of those like Generals Jones, Kirkland, Williams, and myself." A ripple of disquieted murmurs ran through the gathered officers that grew larger and larger and culminated in a row only a few decibels away from being a straight-up shouting match. Most of the rumblings, Lane observed, were directed towards the American high-commanders. Part of it he understood - they were the ones with direct authority over America's frontline dealings - but mostly it just pissed him off. No one could have predicted that morning, let alone their ill-fated attempt at capturing a gun base; it was no fault of theirs that they'd lost Carter. If anyone was to blame, it was Lane himself.

"What are you proposing, Mr. Jones?" Tedder's voice carried over the noise, momentarily quieting the dissenters.

"I was getting to that," Louis nodded in gracious acknowledgement of the English officer, "I propose that we assemble a special division, a task force, if you will, with the express purpose of finding Major Carter and preventing incidents like this from happening in the future." More rumblings.

"And who would head this division? I don't want an outsider rooting around in SHAEF affairs." Eisenhower stated, reasserting not only his willingness to compromise, but also his control over things. Louis smiled.

"I think the obvious choice is Captain Lane and his fellow aides, as well as a few trusted men of their choosing. If they agree, of course. They would have to be brought up to date, but this way the threat of subversion would be vastly minimized."

All went silent as he said it, but slowly, reluctantly, the nods followed, and soon after statements of affirmation as the logic of it sunk in. Innumerable eyes turned to the bewildered officer as he tried to collect himself.

"You want me, sir?"

"Yes. You were the last man to see Carter alive, and I believe that out of us all, you were the one who knew him best," Louis inclined his head in preparation for an answer, "Do you disagree?"

"No, I –" Lane was suddenly very aware of all the eyes on his person and struggled not to fidget, "I would be honored to assume the role, sir."

"Good," he clapped his hands together delightedly, "Then it is settled, we can discern the logistics at a later date. Thank you, gentlemen, for allowing me to disturb your meeting." Louis inclined his head and stepped back; however, it was clear that an ultimatum had just been made. Lane couldn't believe it. He was to head a unit, and not just any unit, one comprised of the countries' personal advisors. How was he, a rookie in this arena of politics and secrecy, supposed to assume command of men far more experienced and adept than himself?

He glanced at Jones who was beaming with pride, and decided he would have to grin and bear it as best he could. Maybe Gillan would have some good advice.

* * *

"Captain!" Lane, still in a daze, turned when his name was called, only to see Louis waving at him from afar. He glanced at Jones for approval before he left his side, wondering what the man could possibly want from him this time.

"Yes, sir?"

"Really, Captain, there's no need for the formalities, any friend of Alfred's is a friend of mine," Lane smarted at the liberal use of General Jones' Christian name, " In any case, I took the liberty of delivering Major's Carter's personal affects to your room, if you wish to go through them before we ship them home."

"His things? But won't his family want them?"

"Don't worry about that, the truth is you and Jones are probably the closest thing to a family he's got."

"How intrusive of you." Louis tossed his head back for a carefree laugh.

"My dear man, it is my job to see to the wellbeing of America and his entourage, of which you are now a part. Therefore you have a stake in the matter - you more than most seeing as you were once Carter's second. Besides, Carter's cousin is a frightful man. He would sooner throw his things away than keep them. That is, before he went after the estate and its assets…" Louis smiled in a way that Lane could only describe as oily, like a poker player who already knew he won, "Is that what you want? To see his things lost in the event he might return to us?"

"Of course not."

"Well then, it's settled," He clapped his hands together again, "You shall be the caretaker of Major Carter's possessions. Congratulations, Captain."

"But, I-" Louis was gone before Lane could get out a sentence. He heaved a breath and raked his fingers through his hair.

He always hated lawyers.

* * *

Lane ran his fingers over Carter's footlocker before opening it. Inside was very little. Some civilian clothing, his dress uniform, a few books of the practical sort, a pack of cigarettes. Nothing personal was contained within. Lane picked up the most worn book – a copy of _The Wealth of Nations_ – and thumbed through it. The paper was thin and well used, some of the margins contained notes in Carter's neat cursive and most of those consisted of his bland opinion on the subjects therein. As he flipped through the rest of it something fell from the back flyleaf.

A photograph.

Lane's frown melted away, replaced quickly by an expression of sheer astonishment. The racy black-and-white image of a 20's flapper, dressed in fringe and pearls, her hip and leg cocked attractively, stared back at him. Lane felt his eyebrows lift so high they must have disappeared into his hairline.

 _What in the hell?_ Why would Major Carter keep a picture like _this?_ A sweetheart maybe? He'd never once hinted at having a lady-friend back home, and this picture was dated 1927 – Carter was thirty-one – he would have been fourteen at the time! Was she family then?

She looked familiar – more than familiar actually – her face bore stunning resemblance to Carter's. Lane saw it in the slant of the eyebrows, the upturn of the mouth, the way her hair shined despite the sepia print. A sister maybe? An aunt? He knew for a fact it wasn't his mother. One of the few things Carter had disclosed to him in regards to his personal life was that both his parents were Italian and devoutly religious. Neither of them would have dared participate in the Roaring Twenties. But lordy, was she quite the dame.

After a brief period of deliberation Lane tucked the photograph back in _The Wealth of Nations_ and set the book on an end table for later perusal. He also extracted Carter's dress uniform, in the event he made it back, one other book which interested him, and the pack of cigarettes. The rest would go with Louis Jones in the morning.

He sat for a long time then, switching between the examination of Carter's books and the woman in the photograph. She was quite the dame indeed. _Maybe_ , Lane thought with rueful amusement, if he ever saw Carter again he'd ask him if he had any female relatives who wouldn't mind going out with an officer. If every woman in Carter's family was even half as attractive as this one here, he would be a happy man indeed. But why keep this picture anyway? Of all the family photos one could have around why this one? Lane knew people who would be in confession for a week if they so much as laid eyes on something like this! And Carter always seemed so upright, so frigid. He'd never so much as glanced at a naughty pin-up illustration in all of the years Lane'd known him, and yet he kept a photograph like this? It made no sense!

At last, around seven o'clock, the questions became far too insistent for Lane to sit and do nothing. With a mighty breath he pushed himself to his feet, seized _The Wealth of Nations_ , and went in search of Washington D.C.

Now that he knew the truth, it was easy to imagine Louis Jones as their nation's capital, just as it was easy to imagine Jones as America and Kirkland as England. They possessed a certain timelessness that transcended any amount of youthful immaturity, and somehow Lane always felt ignorant when he was around them, as though he was only grasping the strings of a rich and veritable tapestry of wisdom and experience. It was probably true, for the most part. Even Louis Jones, technically the youngest among them, was still centuries more experienced than Lane – a thought which did not fail to rankle him. It was near to impossible, therefore, not to dredge up some respect for the man.

Fortunately, his distaste for the suave, self-confidant lawyer was not as easily consolidated as his age, a sentiment which, as he entered Louis' room, he felt return in spades when he witnessed the man lounging at his desk, coat discarded and vest unbuttoned with a glass of brandy in his hand. In the ashtray, a cigar smoldered.

"Mr. Jones?"

"Captain, what can I do for you?" He shut his book with a snap, "And call me Louis. 'Mr. Jones' is far too formal."

"Duly noted," Lane said with the tiniest bit of venom, "I came because I found this in Major Carter's footlocker. I thought you might know who it was." He presented the picture to Louis, who looked at it for a long moment, face uncannily blank as though a mask had just fallen into place. Lane found it more incriminating than any measure of emotion.

"Where did you get this?" Lane noted a cool undertone in the lawyer's voice and responded in kind with coolness of his own.

"I told you. In Major Carter's footlocker."

"And you are asking me about it?"

"Yes. Since you seem to know so much about him." Louis chuckled breathily, as if by doing so he could dismiss the situation.

"I'm afraid your guess is as good as mine. I am not familiar with the Major on any level other than a professional one. He was rather a misanthrope when it came to personal matters," Louis handed the photo back to Lane with smile that seemed a tad too thin for Lane's liking, "Though I don't suppose it is uncommon for men to keep such paraphernalia in their possession." Lane found his eyes narrow at the insinuation. Major Carter was not a wanton man; in fact, he was about as romantically inclined as a dead fish.

"It seems a bit _dated_ for the purpose you're suggesting."

"Well, I can hardly account for a man's personal preference," He gave Lane a sidelong grin, "I wouldn't put too much stock into it, Captain. Though I would say, when you find him, you should ask him about it yourself."

Dismissal was clear in Louis' tone, but Lane lingered, words of reproach dancing on his tongue. He wanted to tell him exactly what he thought of his high-handed actions, his fanciful presentation, his unchecked gaiety in the face of war-torn reality. But discipline stayed his complaints. Louis could easily boot him off the task force, or worse yet, convince Jones to find another aide and as much as Lane disagreed with Jones' methods and manner – traits he found ran in the family – he didn't want to see the position fall to someone else, not when the possibility of rescuing Carter hovered so near.

"Was there something else on your mind, Captain?" Louis arched a brow, perfectly accommodating, and yet, to Lane, slightly threatening, as if he was daring him to pursue the topic further. He decided it would be a battle for another day.

"No, thanks anyway though." He left without another word, fed up with lawyers, and went straight back to his own quarters. The book he placed once more on the end table, the picture he kept with him as he retired to his bunk. He remained mindful of the distinct feeling of unfinished business and unanswered questions doing acrobatics in his gut as he stared into the woman's teasing eyes, seemingly alight with the very answers he sought. Her expression was wry and sardonic, as though she was about to burst out laughing at some joke at the viewer's expense. Frustrated, Lane shoved the picture away from him, unable to bear the woman's teasing scrutiny any longer, although it served little purpose. Even as he slept he felt her coy stare puncturing holes in his resolve, so foreign, and yet, so familiar.

* * *

 **Königsburg, Prussia**

"Sir, telegram for you." Two crimson eyes snapped up from the field reports they were analyzing and fixed instantly on the officer who'd spoken.

"Bring it here." The man possessed a voice steeped in underlying aggression, even though his lips remained contorted in a neutral line. The subordinate officer approached with appropriate caution, placing the sheet carefully in his superior's impatient hand.

The General's unnerving eyes shifted over the text at a shocking pace; however, the brevity of his perusal did not dampen the effect the printed words seemed to have on him. The scarlet in his eyes darkened to maroon while his face seemed to take on ten more years. But perhaps it was the lighting.

"Sir?" Said the subordinate, confused by the lack of dismissal. He flinched when hawkish red irises focused on him suddenly.

"Yes, Sergeant?" His confidence was drained in moments.

"Nothing, sir." The general resumed reading without further acknowledgement, dismissing his subordinate with a wave of his hand. The sergeant left, stationing himself dutifully just outside the door. Minutes passed like hours, then, at last, just when his left foot was beginning to fall asleep, a summons called him back. He found the young general with his fists clenched on his desk, the letter before him, looking troubled and just the slightest bit irritated.

"Sergeant, find Herr Schriver immediately. It appears I will be departing in the morning."


	11. Timely Arrival

**Timely Arrival**

 **June 20** **th** **, 1944**

 **Strasbourg, France**

"There's no justice in the world, France." The man perked at my grousing, made from a one-hundred-and-sixty degree angle recline on my bunk. He gazed back with baleful eyes.

"No, there's not." I sighed at his supplicating answer, far too servile for my liking. It was the kind of shitty moral we tried our hardest to knock out of the men early on before it really took hold.

"I'm gonna get you out of here, you know that, right?"

"Do not make promises you cannot keep. Our best hope is to wait for liberation."

"France, liberation is upon us! What do you think I'm doing here? Sight-seeing?" I said, frustrated now, "They won't twiddle their thumbs for long, not with the way things are going. We have to make a move." A small smile began to ply his lips, and I knew I'd made at least a little progress, but it wasn't enough.

"I do not remember you being so stubborn."

"And I don't remember you being so weak!" France flinched away at my venomous denunciation and, like a dog tucking its tail between its legs, looked downward shamefully. It prompted no sympathy from me.

"Do not think I've given up all hope," He said, almost more to himself than to me, "There has been so much bloodshed. There is no need for any more, least of all on my account, and especially when it will be your blood."

"Don't start worrying about me now. I've had worse," I gestured to my bum shoulder, swift on its way to recovery, "Besides, the sooner we get you out of here, the sooner the war will be over."

"And what will they do to the rest of the men here after I am gone? What will they do to you? I cannot bear to have that on my conscious."

"And what about the men out there?" I gestured violently westward, towards the front, "What about their lives?" France looked away meekly with the force of my censure.

"You know that is not what I meant."

"Look, the point is, we have to come up with a plan before Germany goes and ruins everything. Now you've been here longer than I have, what's our best shot?"

"I could not tell you. The SS are not idle in their duties."

"But you got to have some idea-

"I'm telling you, I don't know!" I was about to say more when the morning reveille sounded across the grounds. France was up and out of there faster than I'd ever seen him. The rest of us filed out to the main grounds, standing in alphabetical order as the guards bid us. I kept shooting glances France's way every chance I got. In all of my dealings with him, I never remembered him being so meek. Never. And I was far from comforted by it. We didn't have a chance in hell of get out of here if he lacked the will to do so.

I swallowed my lingering ire as Kraus paced up and down the lines, barking out names with his usual erratic vehemence. There was something in his normally pompous mien, however, that seemed a little less than reliable this morning. I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but it smacked of danger just on the horizon.

When he got to my name on the roster a pregnant pause stilled the air. He fixed me with a piercing, pointed glare.

"Carter!" He ground out. A sudden flare of pain knifed through my shoulder, right where Germany shot me yesterday. I hissed under my breath, resisting the urge to seize my arm.

"Present." Another tense moment passed before he continued on. France observed the exchange with wide eyes before turning his gaze on me, questions sparking like fireworks in his face. I inclined a brow quickly in his direction to let him know that I'd explain everything later. Maybe. This was my battle, not his.

"Alright, move out!" Kraus barked, turning on his heel as he did so. France exchanged a glance with one of his froggy compatriots, Blanchard I believe his name was, and then began a slow march after the Commandant.

While the Geneva Convention prevented them from working us captured soldiers in industries related directly to the war effort, it didn't stop them from working us. Alsace was an agricultural region - mostly viticulture, but there was a decent market for industrial crops and produce. For the past few days they'd sent us out to harvest the tobacco fields near the camp. Before that it was cabbage. The work was hard, but it was better than sitting around, even though I knew the food was going to a hoard of Germans.

German _citizens_ , I reminded myself, not soldiers. Either way, I took the sickle they offered me without much guff and followed the rest of my POW brethren down the road. Behind and in front of our procession were armed guards, the Commandant included.

I frowned, not trusting him one bit. Even being near him made my skin crawl. The only consolation was the suspicious upturn of his collar, no doubt concealing the evidence of my violent indiscretion yesterday from his subordinates' eyes. It gave me a grand feeling of satisfaction.

The tobacco field where they had us laboring was a couple miles down the road to the east. In the dry Alsace air, surrounded by verdant, springtime green on all flanks, I was both fondly and painfully reminded of my homeland. Out here, under the open sky, the illusion of freedom was so tenacious I didn't even mind the work.

My reverie was broken by the force of a riding crop smacking into my midsection.

"Not you." The Commandant's voice gave everyone pause, "You're going elsewhere."

Two of the guards peeled off to flank the Commandant as he led me further down the road. Anxiously, I glanced back over my shoulder towards the others, all stock still with confusion and worry, but none more so than France. I almost wished he would come to my defense, make a scene, or something, _anything_ , to halt these abnormal proceedings. It was a fool's hope though, for he did nothing. Then again, what moron would? No need for anyone to get killed on my account.

"I've decided that in light of your… special circumstances, this would be more accommodating," He gestured to a wide, five-acre swath of un-harvested tobacco leaves, "I want this field harvested in completion by nightfall."

"Are you out of your damn mind?" I said before I could stop myself, taking two steps his direction. One of the guards drove his forearm into my chest and shoved me into the dirt.

"I would spend less time complaining and more time working, were I in your place," He sneered and turned away, leaving me to dust myself off. I raised my sickle, wondering what would happen if I brained the bastard with it right now. At the last moment I redirected my arm toward one of the bushes. Slashed it clean through.

"Shithead," I said.

 **Somewhere Outside Berlin**

 **~Prussia~**

It was always amazing to me the volume and breadth of certain ironies; most pressing that of coming to my brother's aid when _my_ situation was the dire one. The Russians were practically knocking at out back gate and he desires - no _demands_ \- that I simply drop everything and assist him? Where was the justice, nay, the equity, of that?

I found my antipathy deepen with every mile that came between myself and the soldiers I was leaving behind. It felt like betrayal - dereliction of duty at the very least – and that did not bode well for my disposition in the slightest. I was an officer for God's sake, and more than that, a figurehead for every man under my command. They would start to lose what little heart they had left if it seemed as though I was abandoning them. That being said, I could not have determined particularly what had driven me to Strasbourg with such haste, given depth and breadth of my skepticism, but I could not forget the underlying tone in Ludwig's message. It had been vague, but not in Ludwig's normal manner, there was indeed more to the story, for I refused to believe that he needed my help simply to interrogate a prisoner.

With luck, this interlude would be a fruitful, but not an overly lengthy foray. There were other, more important issues that occupied my time. _Honestly…_ I sat forward, head in hand, lamenting yet again. Did he really think that one man could utterly reverse the current of the war? Such a thing, he had to understand, was near impossible at this point. Even if it was truly a state in his custody – which I staunchly did not believe – what made him think that I would have any more luck than he? It was no secret that of the two of us, I was vastly more contrarian, and far less willing to please. There was very little place for me in a situation in which politicking and delicate maneuvers won the day.

Then again, Ludwig had been onerously vague in his explanation, indicating only that he wished for my consultation and authority on the matter. Perhaps he merely wanted advice. Truly, I had very little idea, and I was not in the mood to analyze his motives based on a four-sentence telegram.

Outside, I watched the landscape pass me by with a growing morbidity. Every minute I spent sitting on this train I could imagine being used doing something else productive, were I back where I belonged.

All throughout the eight hour journey, one recurring thought kept circling my mind: how long did we have until the Allies broke through? How long until their progress became irreversible? The situation in Normandy was no secret to me. The Wehrmacht generals were doing all that they could with what little resources they had, but they would need a miracle if they hoped to fend off the Allied war machine. I sighed in spite of myself. Perhaps Ludwig was right to regard this prisoner as he did – any possibility, no matter how much of a long shot, was better than nothing at all.

 **Strasbourg, France**

 **~New York~**

They say Hell hath no fury like a woman's scorn. Today, I was walking proof of that particular turn-of-phrase. I was so fighting mad I cleared the first half acre in an hour. Of course I'd also sweat right through my service blouse, I was hot and sticky, and my shoulder hurt like all hell. I kept on going though. The trick was to imagine each bush as the Commandant's face. It worked too, until I was forced to consolidate the utter inconceivability of a single person doing a twenty man job.

"You som'bitch." I groused when my sickle slipped and sliced my hand. A Frenchman in the adjacent field looked at me pityingly before returning to his own work. _Just another day the army, huh?_

At noon, the POW's were granted a short reprieve for water and lunch, comprised of little more than watery broth and a bit of biscuit. I, consumed by rage and a defiant need to prove something, elected to skip it in favor of bailing another row of tobacco leaves.

"Stupid bastards." Usually I wasn't one for whining, but I felt an exception could be made given the situation. Tobacco wasn't the trickiest crop I'd ever dealt with - England and I tried it once in 1702 – but it was a real bitch to harvest alone. The way I'd always done it involved two men per row, one cutting, one piling, so as to maximize production and efficiency. Unfortunately, such a factory-like system was made impossible here.

I glanced over my shoulder at the Commandant. He was watching me from his high handed perch on the road, a nasty look in his eye. It served only to fuel the strength of my arm. I'd show the son of a bitch what Americans were made of.

 **~Prussia~**

Ludwig's chauffer met me in the station outside the city. Why Ludwig was not there in person I had no idea, except that he must have wanted to save our glorious reunion for later. Indeed, it had been over a year since we had last had the pleasure of each other's company, and we had not parted on the best of terms.

Now that I thought about it, perhaps it was better that we did not meet here; I was not yet sure whether a fist or a bullet would have been a more appropriate greeting.

As was evident, five hours on the train had done little for my disposition, but I was still of sound enough mind to greet the chauffer with a tolerable level of cordiality. He nodded in return and we boarded my brother's yacht of a Mercedes, ignoring the interested eyes of the other people, citizens and soldiers alike, on the street.

It was strange being back in Strasbourg again. France and I had scrapped over the Alsace region more times than I could count, but even so, the city remained as I remembered. A calm town, with a pace slower than I was accustomed to, filled with hard-working country people who had little inkling of the complex web of politics that continuously put them in the path of one war machine or another.

I could understand why Ludwig had chosen it for his headquarters.

Strasbourg possessed quite a different feel than the likes of Konigsberg or Berlin, obviously more agrarian, but there was something else too. A provinciality perhaps that was absent in the understated majesty of my capital. _Simplicity._ That was it.

"How much longer until we reach the base?" I queried after the river and the quaint, half-timber houses had become shadows on the horizon.

"Approximately ten minutes, sir."

I nodded and allowed the lush, pastoral setting to pass me by with a quiet sadness in my heart.

 **~New York~**

It was nine o'clock before I twined together the last bushel. At that point my hands were rubbed raw and blistered, as were my feet, and my back ached like hell. But by God that fuckin' field was finished. I stood near the road, thumbs hooked in my belt, overlooking over my work with an exhausted, albeit smug eye, waiting for the Commandant to come look it over when a great rumbling rose up in the distance, giving pause to every remaining man in the vicinity, including me. I watched as a sleek black automobile thundered down our stretch of road, churning up dirt and rocks, only to disappear a second later, as quickly as it came. I coughed the dirt of my lungs. _The hell?_ What was a nice car like that doing in a place like this? Sightseeing?

The Commandant, hair blown out of place and black uniform turned gray with dust, shouted angrily at the vehicle as it passed us by. His rage was already going before but now he was practically steaming from the ears. I flinched prematurely when he turned my way, advancing in long, angry strides. There was a manic, almost crazed look in his eyes, and suddenly I wished that France and the others were still out here.

I stood my ground as he moved past me in order to look over my work. Any disbelief was masked by his rapidly deepening scowl while his lips parted to reveal clenched teeth. Clearly he had not anticipated that I would finish in the time allotted, although that had been the point, hadn't it? I couldn't help a vindictive smile as it stretched from ear to ear. _How do you like me now, you bastard?_

"Who assisted you?"

"No one." Apparently that wasn't a satisfactory answer, for Kraus turned on his heel and seized me by the collar.

"I said, who assisted you?"

"Are you fucking deaf? I said no one!" He growled, shoving me. But I'd well and truly had enough of him. In a surge of impulsivity, I shoved him back just as hard and came face to face with a drawn pistol in the same instant.

"Mark my words, I will kill you."

"Go ahead and shoot then!" I shouted, loud and clear into the night, common sense be damned. Kraus seemed momentarily taken aback by my declaration – a prisoner asking to be shot? Unheard of. In the back of my mind I contemplated what would happen if he actually pulled the trigger. What would he do with the body? And more importantly, how would he explain it to Germany? I sneered vindictively when slowly he lowered his arm.

 _I win, asshole._

"Move, American." He flicked his head in the direction of the camp and, with one last scorching look, I did as I was bid. He followed a pace behind, pistol at the ready in case I tried anything and eyes practically burning a hole in my back. As we passed through the gates into camp I remember looking over to the base and seeing the sleek car from before parked in front of the main house. A feeling of foreboding came over me. New faces always signaled disruption amongst the ranks, and disruption was that last thing I needed.

~ **Prussia~**

"'Hope not ever to see Heaven. I have come to lead you to the other shore; into eternal darkness.'" Ludwig's chauffer looked at me confusedly, "Dante." I said, by way of explanation.

The chateau which Ludwig had appropriated for his own use was a large and appealing edifice of the half-timber variety, very commonplace for a German town, or a French one that lay on the border. It felt very homey, if not a tad reminiscent of our own childhood domain so very many years ago. I took a breath, wondering again at his motivation for asking me here.

"Gilbert!" I turned in time to see Italy bounding down the drive toward me. Tired as I was I managed to return his warm embrace with a tolerable level of vigor, "It has been far too long!"

"Indeed. You look well." He beamed at my statement, as if the world was not tearing itself apart as we spoke. It was an optimism to be admired.

"Thank you for coming so quickly. I was afraid you wouldn't."

"I could not pass up the chance to see my baby brother," I indulged him with a bit of my old wiles, "Where is he?" Italy looked suddenly downcast.

"He is waiting for us inside." I narrowed my eyes, glancing up at the many windows in the old chateau. _Was he watching us right now?_

"Well then what are we waiting for? I am _aquiver_ with the prospect of meeting him again." If Italy registered the my biting inflection he gave no indication, only clinging tightly to me in order to better regale me with tales of his time here. The omission of the current business at hand was glaringly evident.

"You quarters are on the third floor, next door to mine," Italy explained, "Germany's office is just here." He said. I sucked in a great breath _. Straight to business then._

We entered and immediately encountered Ludwig with his back to us, pouring over a vast map of the continent on the far wall. His office was luxurious in design, with pale green walls and maple flooring. A small hearth crackled and burned in the corner, turning the pristine white curtains a lovely gold and everything else a deep amber. His desk, covered in all manner of document, sat opposite the fire.

"Italy, if you would, please take my brother's affects to his quarters." Italy looked between us worriedly, but acquiesced nonetheless. Germany turned then to me and we looked upon each other for the first time in over a year. He was the same as I remembered, gaunter perhaps, and more careworn, but the same. I could not know if the same could be said of me.

"Ludwig."

"Gilbert."

"It has been a while."

"Yes. It has." I pursed my lips, trying to see past his bland inflection but remembering only his public disavowal of me four years ago after Stalingrad. He had used that tone then, too.

"Are you well?"

"I am," He replied, seeming somewhat disoriented as though he had not expected civility from me, "And you?"

"As well as can be expected," I clasped my hands behind my back, "I heard you had a spot of trouble?"

"I do. I wish to ask your opinion on a certain matter." I arched an eyebrow.

"Come now, Ludwig. If that was simply the case you would have said so in your telegram, or better yet, asked someone else. Now tell me, what is truly going on?" There was no handshake, or brotherly embrace, or any semblance of companionship, just the cold detachment of two men doing business. With a sigh I seated myself in an armchair before the hearth, tenting my fingers. Ludwig's eyes barely narrowed, but otherwise he comported himself well and took the seat opposite me.

"I will not beat about the bush," He began, staring into the crackling log in the fireplace, "The Allies have invaded and are very close to breaking out of the peninsula."

"I am aware of the situation." He shot me a barely restrained look of exasperation. I resolved to keep my answers short, to the point, and devoid of emotion; I would most certainly inflict violence upon him otherwise.

"We captured one of theirs on the day they invaded, and I have since imprisoned him here," Ludwig paused, perhaps for effect, "The man is one of America's states." I sat forward stridently.

"Are you certain?"

"Yes. He is one of the most resilient men I have ever had the _dis_ pleasure of interrogating. He has not said a word, not one blasted word about America or their operation."

"And you need my help to persuade him otherwise?"

"Yes and no. I've hit a snag, the Commandant, Armin Kraus, is an unreasonable man. He's had Himmler order a joint custody of the prisoner. I cannot succeed with the Commandant hounding my steps and sabotaging my progress." I nodded, beginning to understand.

"He is SS then?"

"That is right. _Allgemeine._ " I sat back in my chair, taking a deep breath while Germany continued, "The man is under your authority as an SS high commander, I hoped that you might be able to reign him in, so to speak. I cannot have him compromising my efforts, not when Rommel is relying on me."

"I see." He scrutinized my face carefully, seeking out some indication as to the emotion behind my neutral response, but I'd become too practiced in the art of fallacy for him to discern anything concrete.

"And, if you could, I'd like for you to take a look at the prisoner as well. You might have more luck than I."

"What makes you think that?"

"You've had far more dealings with the states than I. He may know you."

And there it was. My whole reason for being here. I was an asset. A piece in the game. I'd known that, of course, but hearing it affirmed made something in me deflate. My hope, I realized. Of rekindling the relationship with my last living family member on this earth.

"I suppose we will see about that tomorrow."

"Yes, tomorrow," He said stiffly, "Oh'sevenhundred."

"Agreed," I started for the door, but at the last second turned back to him, "Goodnight, Ludwig."

He only nodded in return.


	12. Unforseen Circumstances

**Unforeseen Circumstances**

 **June 21** **st** **, 1944**

 **Normandy, France**

Lane joggled his knee as the jeep took them deeper into the newly acquired Allied territory. Part of him was comforted being back in the midst of the action, but Lane understood that a fundamental alteration had taken place. Jones explained to him, to all of them, that they would have to relinquish command of their respective outfits now that they headed the new task force. It came as an especially hard blow to Lane, seeing as many of the men in the 1st division had been trained personally by himself and Carter. That kind of trust was hard to top and the last thing he wanted to do was walk out on them. They'd already lost one good commander, and now they were about to lose him too.

In the midst of his guilt, he reminded himself that he now served a higher cause. America and a hoard of other top commanders were relying on him to make Louis Jones' experiment a successful one and he'd be damned if he messed it up now. What is more, Lane wasn't sure how Dufault and Gillan felt about being led by someone as new to the block as he. Dufault, for as little as Lane knew about him, seemed like an agreeable fellow. Gillan, on the other hand, was a hard son-of-a-bitch to read. He could run both sweet and sour if the occasion suited him, and he'd been around longer than all of them - if anyone should have been taking the lead, it was him.

Lane took a breath, raking him fingers through his hair. There was no need to invent issues where none existed; both Gillan and Dufault had been perfectly charitable insofar. It was the nerves making him over-analyze, he decided. Any reasonable person would do the same.

"Captain, we're here." Lane acknowledge the driver briefly before unloading, eyes already scanning the lines for his future second-in-command. The plan was to gather everyone up and meet back up with the Allies at noon for the first briefing, something which Lane dreaded deeply. Streicher was as skeptical as any scientist; his first reaction might very well be to shoot first and ask questions later when the countries revealed what this was all really about.

"Alright, Strike. Where are you?" Lane said to himself.

A minute later he spotted Major Hughes, the company's interim commander, coming over the rise with Streicher in tow. Lane waved to catch their attention.

"Captain Lane, good to see you. How was London?" Hughes addressed him respectfully, although Lane did not fail to catch the spiteful undertone. _He thought Lane was running out on them._

"Just fine, sir. Had a meeting, met some of the higher ups. You received Jones' telegram?"

"I did. I can't fathom why you'd want to leave such a fine company, but I'll do my best to take them from here." Lane nodded a tad awkwardly before offering a parting salute. Behind Hughes, Streicher cracked a smarmy grin.

"I appreciate it. Thank you, sir."

"And, Corporal?" Hughes turned to Streicher now, "I expect you will not embarrass us on the world stage. I would hate to find out my decision not to have you court marshalled was for nothing. Is that clear?"

"Crystal, sir." Streicher looked him straight in the eyes, about as earnest as he had ever been, though Lane knew it to be an act. Hughes scrutinized him a moment longer, nodded once at the captain, and departed, "Shithead," Streicher asserted when he was out of earshot.

"You know, your life would be a lot easier if you just followed orders."

"Come on, Jim, where's the fun in that?" Lane rolled his eyes at Streicher's stubborn omission of his proper title. He'd long since given up trying to make the man respect the chain of command, and they were such good friends anyway it seemed to Lane almost more improper to make Streicher call him 'sir.' He supposed that as long as Strike didn't disrespect him publicly he would let him get away with it, but that didn't mean he wouldn't hold him to a higher standard now.

"As I remember, you were practically an angel for Carter."

"That was different."

"I'm sure," said he, "But you're gonna have to change you tune for this one Strike. This is bigger than anything we've ever dealt with."

"You going all high-class on me now? What, does Jones need two of us to take his memos?" Lane stopped abruptly, startling his jovial cohort.

"Strike, I'm not playing around. Stop running your mouth or I'll find someone else to help me." Streicher recoiled with the force of Lane's censure, suddenly humbled and serious.

"Alright, I get it. I'm sorry," He shifted his pack and rifle to the other shoulder, "But what are we doing? This seems awful hush-hush."

"That's because it is," Lane hopped into the back of the jeep, Streicher close behind, "I'll explain it all when we get to where we're going."

"And where's that?"

"It's classified." Lane mimicked Streicher's most shit-eating smile. Streicher was not amused.

"I resent that remark."

"Do you even know what that means?"

"Yeah, it means you're an asshole." Streicher sat back with his arms crossed, the picture of self-satisfaction. Lane rolled his eyes.

"Just don't do anything unusually stupid. You'll see when we get there."

* * *

"Lane! You're back early," Jones smiled and waved as Lane and Streicher exited the vehicle. As of yet, the front was not well-enough established enough to necessitate a long trip. One could travel between the beachhead and the furthest inland reaches of Allied territory in less than an hour.

"Sir," He saluted. Streicher did the same, "Have the others returned yet?"

"No," Just then, another vehicle rolled in to the encampment, "Well speak of the devil. The Redcoats are coming."

Indeed, Kirkland, Gillan, and a man Lane did not know, pulled up beside the American jeep. Streicher scrutinized them carefully, remembering the last time they'd dealt with Lieutenant Gillan; clearly Lane did as well, for he raised an eyebrow in warning. Streicher begrudgingly held his tongue.

"General. Captain Lane," Kirkland greeted them with a salute, "And Corporal Streicher. I am glad you decided to join us." Streicher offered a tense 'yes sir' by way of agreement.

"Who'd you bring?" Jones addressed the new man, younger than Gillan by far but not so young as to be a complete greenie. He was short, perhaps five-foot six, with catty brown eyes, and slender, patrician features. Lane had a feeling his elfin appearance belied a sharp temperament.

"Corporal Astor sir, 3rd Division, 8th Brigade. Suffolk Regiment."

"Sword Beach, then?"

"That's right, sir." Sensing an inaudible cue from his superior, Astor stepped back and allowed Kirkland once again to preside over the meeting. The English officer smiled genially at the swiftly approaching Canadian outfit before leading the way to the white command tent where the official briefing would be held. Lane fell in step with his English and Canadian cohorts, sensing for the first time a spirit of unified direction among their ranks. Streicher, on the other hand, surveyed them with slight distrust, the weight of words unsaid pressing down on him. Usually he was the first to call out bullshit when he saw it, and right now he was seeing quite a bit of it; it was his loyalty to Lane that kept him from uttering a blistering remark. He trusted the higher-ups about as much as he trusted any bureaucrat – they were hiding something, he knew it, and so did everybody else. It was time to lay the cards on the table.

* * *

It was around noon when Alan Streicher finally lost his cool. The Dream Team (a moniker bestowed upon them by someone low in the ranks but high in nerve) was receiving the first of many briefings, including, but not limited to, the distribution of cyanide capsules, an outline of the main objective, and the revelation of the commanders' true identities. The last of which they saved for the very end, after everyone was thoroughly dazed and confused by the level of secrecy with which they were all expected to conduct themselves after this moment.

Jones, as usual, headed the introductions in his chipper, enthusiastic way, earning confused if not downright skeptical looks from every new man present. Astor and Matonis kept their uncertainty in check out of respect for their superiors, dutiful and deferent as they were. Corporal Streicher was a different story.

"So let me get this straight: You're telling me that you all are some kind of immortal, holier-than-thou, _deities_ with control over everyone's lives?" He actually laughed aloud before candidly stating: "That sounds like a bunch of bullshit to me." Lane lowered his forehead slowly into his palm. Gillan's eyes were on him disapprovingly, as if to say ' _I told you so.'_

"Shut _up_ , Strike." He hissed under his breath, but the damage had been done. America's eyes were wide with shock, while England glared poisonously. Canada simply refrained from commentating, as was his nature.

"Come on, Captain. You don't actually believe this do you?" Streicher said in his brash Southern voice, never looking away from General Jones.

"Streicher, I said _shut up."_

"You're all damn crazy! A bunch of nutjobs!" That was the last straw for some of the more reserved men, namely Lieutenant Gillan.

"You impertinent swine!" He spat in his cultured, English voice, "Have you no shame?"

"Lieutenant!" England barked, green eyes flashing dangerously, "Contain yourself!"

"Lane, General, with all due respect, this is ridiculous," Streicher said matter-of-factly, "Now I'm going back to the front where I belong. You can have your little party without me."

"Streicher!" America, who'd relinquished control of the situation for as long as he could stand, finally put his foot down. The force and intensity behind his voice shocked Lane; America was almost never this serious. Streicher had the good sense to stop what he was doing, "This is not a game. We're telling the truth."

" _Prove it, then_." Streicher's challenge matched America's, step for step. He had his eyes narrowed and hard, a fierce snarl on his lips that could have doubled as a sadistic grin.

The other men were content to simply sit back and watch the show, afraid to get between the two of them. _Good move,_ thought Lane. The last time he'd seen Jones so riled up was after Carter had been captured, and that was a terrific enough experience. Lane could hardly imagine what it would be like to be on the ass-end of General Jones' shit list; Streicher had more balls than anyone he'd ever known.

America ran his hand through his hair in frustration.

"I really didn't wanna have to do this again." Streicher reeled back when he drew his field knife, holding it poised over his palm. Lane knew what came next.

"Woah, woah, what the hell are you doing?" In full view of everyone present, America plunged the knife downward into his own hand. The blade stuck all the way through to the other side, the end red with blood.

"Goddamn it." Just as quickly as it went in, Jones had it out, glistening in the afternoon light. He flexed his fingers, once, twice, and held it up for all to witness. In a matter of seconds, the gaping, inch-wide hole closed, leaving only fresh, pink skin. Lane shuddered. He would never get used to seeing that.

Streicher's reaction was not so subtle.

He looked once at America, once at his wriggling hand, and fell backwards. Fainted.

"Well, shit." Said America, rather candidly. Lane, forgetting his rank, replied.

"You think?"

"Captain, were we not specific enough when we said find _trustworthy_ seconds?" England, ever dignified, came to stand next to America, his arms crossed.

"I'm sorry, sir. He's just… opinionated."

"So I can see," He shook his head in brusque exasperation, "Well, leave him there I suppose. We still have things to do."

* * *

"You're a real asshole, you know that Strike?" The man in question managed a non-committal grunt in return, "If it weren't for Jones, you'd be with the MPs right now."

"Do the MPs put knives through their hands too?" Lane rolled his eyes.

"You know he wouldn't've had to do that if you hadn't been acting like dumbass." Streicher stared straight ahead, smoking like a maniac.

"Yeah well, if you're so smart, why don't you go take a long walk off a short pier?" He suggested, at last becoming more like the Alan Streicher Lane knew.

"So does that mean you're in?" The man took a deep breath, and, almost reverently, flicked his cigarette butt into the dirt.

"Yeah, I'm in," He grinned his foxy, Streicher grin, "You're gonna need at least one sane som'bitch out there." Lane snorted.

"You just shoot straight and leave the talking to me. You're in enough hot water as it is."

"With who?"

"With _whom,_ Corporal. And that would be me." A cultured voice interrupted Streicher's vehement declaration. Gillan approached slowly, with Astor close behind.

"The hell do you want?"

"Put your claws away, lad," Gillan patronized, turning then to Lane, "I came to tell you that we are moving out tomorrow. Straight to the front lines."

"Duly noted, thank you."

"Oh, and Corporal?" Gillan had a mischievous look about him, "Did it hurt when you hit the ground? I can't imagine the rocks being very comfortable."

"You son of a-

" _Thank you_ , Lieutenant." Lane, the un-appointed mediator, leapt between them before Streicher had a chance to draw his pistol; however, it didn't stop him from trying.

"You're digging your own grave old man!" Lane caught him as he lunged forward, clawing and biting, towards Gillan, while the Englishman danced backward out of his reach.

It was going to be a long war.

* * *

 **(Hope you like it, there's plenty more where this came from, but not until springtime. I'm joining the army myself and I won't be done with training for a while.)**


End file.
